


Fait Accompli

by fluttermoth



Series: Causa Mortis [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Assassins, Dark Comedy, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, F/M, Fantasy, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Mild Gore, Multi, Sexual Content, Sexual Sadism, The Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2018-10-20 23:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluttermoth/pseuds/fluttermoth
Summary: The Dark Brotherhood's past is rife with betrayal, and Cicero has done his best to move forward. He guards his secrets as fiercely as any assassin. But when a remnant of his past comes calling, he will be forced to confront some unwelcome truths.A sequel to Causa Mortis.





	1. The Past is Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This work is a sequel to my story Causa Mortis. I would suggest starting there, or some things might be a little confusing. However, I understand that it is a beast of a fic and maybe you don't want to read it before starting this one... So I will do my best to make this fic work as a standalone. Just know that I may not always succeed.
> 
> I held back a lot when I was working on Causa Mortis. I was a new writer and a little shy at times. Well, I'm not so shy anymore. I will post warnings at the beginning of any chapter with graphic content, but be advised that this fic will include: torture, mentions of rape, sexual sadism, emotional manipulation, graphic violence (what Brotherhood fic is complete without that?), and strong language.
> 
> This story is focused on the fall of the Dark Brotherhood. I am operating under the idea that what Cicero wrote down in his journals is not the whole story, it's just what he was told or believed to be true. That being said, I am probably gong to be playing fast and loose with some of the game lore. I know some new information recently came to light thanks to the TES: Legends game. So what is written in this story may clash with some of it.
> 
> Anyway, enough of my babbling. Enjoy the story! :)

A man moves through the darkness. The night wraps around him like a shroud, curling around him and hiding him from view. His bare fingers caress a panel of rotten wood, feeling out a place where his initials were carved long ago. This old, abandoned house is as familiar to him as the back of his hand, even after all these years. He needs no light as he turns down a narrow corridor, passes a broken door, and finally steps into the cool depths of the earth.

The Black Door’s heartbeat welcomes him. _“What is the color of night?”_

“Sanguine, my brother.”

_“Welcome home.”_

The Cheydinhal Sanctuary is dark and decrepit. The air is heavy with sorrow and thick with dust. Even though the Sanctuary has fallen into disrepair, there is still some reminder of the people who lived there. Despite the dust, it is cleaner than the man expected it to be. He still can’t believe the abandoned house is standing after all that’s happened. It’s a miracle the townspeople never tried to burn it down. Perhaps there is still some magic protecting this place.

“It’s about time you showed up,” comes the gruff voice of his friend. “We’ve been here for hours.”

“I was delayed,” he says. “My apologies.”

“Let’s get this over with,” comes a third voice— the voice of a stranger.

“Who are you?” The man demands, taking one step backward. He blinks his eyes, straining to adjust them to the dim light. “You’re not—”

A figure steps into the meager light, his face shrouded by the hood of his cloak. There is a strange, mechanical whirring that follows him, akin to the chittering of insects. “I am your new master,” the man — _the elf_ — says. “Your orders, your funds, and anything else you may need will come directly from me. You have only one task. A task you failed at so long ago. You are to hunt down the remaining assassins of the Dark Brotherhood and wipe them out. Starting with the loose end you left here.”

The man blows a sharp breath through his nose. “To be fair, I thought he’d kill himself after a while.”

“I told you not to underestimate him,” his friend says. “Cicero was strong. He was always strong.”

“Where is he now?” he asks, walking around the familiar foyer and peeking in various rooms. Most of the furniture has been destroyed— for kindling, most likely. “And where is the Night Mother?”

“He took the corpse to Skyrim,” the elf says. “We suspect there is a new Listener now. There are too many rumors and too many murders for it to be a coincidence. The Dark Brotherhood is on the rise, no thanks to you two.”

His friend breathes a laugh. “We’ll burn this Listener just like the old one.”

“Don’t get cocky,” the elf growls. “They are the reason your former employer is dead, and why I have taken over this position. It would be wise to proceed with caution. You do not want to be caught unawares.”

“I thought our employer got himself killed trying to reclaim his lost _pet_ ,” he says, smirking at the stupidity of the elf’s demise. “Don’t tell me that little snip of a girl got the better of him.”

“My sources think the girl might be with the Dark Brotherhood. She has been spotted with Cicero numerous times.” The elf leans against a dusty pillar. “It can’t be a coincidence.”

“I dunno,” his friend says, amusement thick in his rough voice. “Cicero always had all the luck with the ladies. He’s probably got an army of bastards up there in Skyrim.”

“This isn’t a debate,” the elf snaps. “There will be no mistakes this time. You only skirted punishment because I didn’t see the point in killing two well-trained men. As it is, my superiors wanted to have you two sitting on a chevalet by sunrise.”

The man holds his hands up. “All right,” he says, hoping to calm the elf. “Just tell us what we need to know about Cicero, the girl, and this new Brotherhood, and we’ll be on our way.”

“All the information you will need is in here.” The elf pulls a roll of parchment from his cloak. “I have also taken the liberty of writing down the passphrase to the Falkreath Sanctuary. That will be a good place to start looking.”

For the first time in ages, the man is truly impressed. “How’d you get the passphrase?”

“With great difficulty,” he says with a sneer. “They will not be at the Falkreath Sanctuary, but it is a good place to start.”

The man wonders if he’s going crazy, or if the mechanical chittering is growing louder. It is difficult to get a good look at the elf, and more difficult to discern the source of that noise. “Why won’t the Dark Brotherhood be at their Sanctuary?”

“Because it was razed by the Penitus Oculatus a year and a half ago. The remaining members of the Dark Brotherhood fled, but we do not know where to. My sources seem to think they are headquartered somewhere to the north. Dawnstar or Winterhold, perhaps.”

“Ah, right, that _thing_ with the emperor,” his friend grumbles. “I heard one of their own sold them out.”

“And Cicero is with them? That slippery little shit survived the fall of yet another Sanctuary?”

“Oh, yes,” the elf says with a sneer. “He definitely did.”

“Do you know the names of the others?”

“The girl’s names is Lumen, but we don’t have the names of the others. My spies are working on it, however. You’ll know when they know.”

“Right, then,” he says. “How much will I be paid for my trouble?”

“If you destroy the Dark Brotherhood and burn that miserable corpse, you will receive ten thousand septims each.”

He snorts. “I recall my employers being more generous in the past—”

The elf strides forward and cuffs him on the ear. “You are lucky to be _alive_ ,” he snarls. “And you’re lucky I’m willing to pay you that much considering how grievously you fucked up the last time. If you had done your job and killed Cicero like you were ordered to do, then the Dark Brotherhood would never have risen again!”

“Ow!” He rubs his stinging ear, dodging another swing from the elf. “Fine! _Fine_. I get it.”

The elf turns on his heel and moves toward the Black Door, he doesn’t bother looking back when he says, “There is a carriage just outside the walls of the city. It will take you to Bruma. From there, you may take the horses and cross the border.”

“We don’t have border passes,” his friend says. “They’re nearly impossible to get thanks to the war.”

“Then be sneaky about it. You’re assassins, aren’t you? Act like it.”

The man watches the elf leave, his mind buzzing with new and exciting ways to kill a group of unwary assassins. He truly thought Cicero would take his life all those years ago. The poor sod wasn’t doing so well. But he underestimated his mark, and it won’t happen again. He will not make the same mistake twice. 

Cicero will die, and the Dark Brotherhood will fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have the second chapter ready to post soon. It's written, I just need to edit it. But until then, I hope you all enjoyed this little intro~
> 
> A chevalet (also known as the wooden horse) is a torture device. It looks something like a triangle and the victim is made to straddle it.


	2. Sanctified Savagery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Rape mention, sexual sadism (It's mostly off page) and consensual sex.

A year has passed since Alduin was slain.

In that year, The Dark Brotherhood has gained two new members; Jundi, a Redguard with eyes like fire, and Sitri, a Khajiit with fur as black as the abyss. They are eager in their work, and they serve the Listener and the Night Mother with unerring devotion. Along with gaining two new members, the Brotherhood has gained notoriety as well. Tales of what happened at the Thalmor prison have spread, and rumors wet the lips of the townsfolk whenever something odd occurs. A sudden death. A disappearance. All unusual events are attributed to the Dark Brotherhood, whether they are responsible or not.

The Blades have been behaving— for now. Lumen regularly sends her assassins out to gather information and listen for rumors. They bring back tales of the Blades helping townsfolk or killing dragons, but they haven’t set foot in Ivarstead or said a word about Paarthurnax. The only real bit of news to come from the Blades is of Esbern’s death. A sickness took him in the night— a pity.

The civil war continues on. The Stormcloaks have gained the upper hand, while the Imperial army is still struggling under a lack of leadership. The Elder Council has yet to choose a new emperor to lead them, and the Thalmor presence has weakened due to their justiciars “mysteriously” vanishing during patrols. Strangely enough, the Forsworn have become a political force to be reckoned with. They are no longer raiding caravans and attacking travelers, but clearing out bandits and offering safe passage to those traveling through the Reach. Madanach is up to something, but Lumen does not know what nor does she have any desire to find out. She is content to leave the politicking to the politicians.

Lumen spends her time doing exactly what she wants. She Listens, she takes the occasional contract, and the enjoys the company of her siblings— mostly.

“Lumen,” comes Luka’s plaintive voice. “Dearheart, _please_ let me help you with this.”

“No,” she says, her voice clipped. It’s taking all her effort to school her voice into something more neutral. He is trying to help her, and she will not snap and snarl at him like some rabid beast. “I’ve never used magic in all my life, and I’m doing just fine without it.”

“Cicero is in agreement with Luka,” he says from his place near the hearth. The Keeper doesn’t bother to look up from his task of patching his motley. “Cicero is no mage, but even he knows a few spells. It could save your life someday.”

Guilt nips at her heels. From the moment they met, she and Luka fell into an easy camaraderie. They can just sit in silence for hours, and it never grows uncomfortable. When they do talk, it’s about anything and everything. There is no such thing as a forbidden subject. Until now…

“I’m sorry.” She sits down on the edge of her bed. “This is a sore subject. I caused a minor explosion the last time I tried to cast anything. I just don’t have the aptitude for it.”

Luka strides across her bedchamber and sits down next to her. “That’s because Malrian taught you improper methods,” he says, his lips twisting into a sneer. “He knew teaching you magic would be like placing a knife in your hands. But I know it’s in you. I can sense it. There’s no reason to stifle yourself because that idiot was frightened of you!”

Lumen breathes a laugh, and the coiling tension in her chest loosens. “That’s a fair point.”

“I’m very good at arguing,” he says proudly. “Especially when I am determined.”

“You’re a typical stubborn Nord,” she says, but there is no bite to her words. “I’ll consider your offer.”

His eyes light up. “We can start today! I’ll teach you to cast ice! It’s one of my favorites. There’s no greater thrill than to freeze all the liquid in someone’s body and watch as they _shatter_.”

“I can’t start today.”

“Why not?” His brows rise as he studies her. “Are you having your menses?”

“What? Why would that matter?” she asks, caught completely off guard.

“Oh, you know, that old myth that a woman’s magic is unpredictable when she is menstruating. It originated here in Skyrim, which is what makes it so stupid. Nord warriors are allowed to come home covered in the blood and guts of their enemies, but the moment a woman mentions her monthlies, they run away screaming. Idiots.”

“It is just blood,” Cicero mutters quietly. “It is nothing to be afraid of.”

Luka shrugs. “People are stupid and often fear what they do not understand.”

“ _Does_ a woman’s menses affect her magic?” she asks, instantly curious.

“I have no idea,” he admits. “But I highly doubt it. Have your menses influenced your ability to Shout?”

She bites her thumbnail as she tries to remember any moment where a Shout went wrong, and her menses were to blame. But her menses are so irregular, and so rare, that she cannot answer the question truthfully. Malrian used to give her teas laced with Silphium and Pennyroyal when she was a child, and she is barren as a result. 

“Not that I have noticed,” she says quickly, not wishing to think about that time. “Anyway, the reason I don’t want to begin today is because I have a contract, and I’d like to be at full strength.”

“Fair enough,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “But you don’t get to use that excuse a second time. Your lessons begin as soon as you return from home.”

“Yes, sir.” She stretches her legs before standing. “I’m going to see Mother before we leave. I think she may have a new contract for us.”

Cicero holds up his motley, inspecting his work. “How can you tell?”

“It’s just a gut feeling, I guess,” she tells him, although she doesn’t truly know. Whenever the Sacrament has been done, she feels inexplicably drawn to the Night Mother. She doesn’t know why, and she doubts asking Mother or Lucien would provide her with any answers.

Lumen moves quickly, breezing through the winding corridors and into the alcove where the Night Mother rests. This part of the Sanctuary smells more like home than any other area. The air is rich with the scent of boiled herbs, beeswax, and the sacred mix of oils that keep their Unholy Matron beautifully preserved.

She kneels on the floor in front of the Night Mother’s shrine, a scrap of parchment in hand. Lumen often finds herself seeking out the Night Mother’s presence as an addict would seek a fix. There is something so intoxicating about hearing her otherworldly voice and doing her dark deeds. Yet, today, this normally pleasant experience turns sour. Because there is no voice in her head, and there are no ethereal arms wrapping around her. There’s _nothing_. But that doesn’t make any sense! She had been so certain the Night Mother had something for her! Is she losing her touch already?

No. No she _isn’t_ — because she’s certain there’s a sacrament taking place. Somewhere— south?

“Mother?” She gazes up at the silent corpse. _“Am I going crazy?”_

“No contracts today?”

Lumen inhales sharply through her nose, and it is an effort not to jump at the sudden sound of Cicero’s voice. “Uh,” she stammers. “No. Not today.”

“You seemed quite certain about it earlier,” he says, a hint of concern shadowing his eyes.

She waves her hand to dismiss his worries. “I think I was just over-eager,” she says, forcing a smile when she turns to look at him. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, but—”

“What is it?” she asks, getting to her feet.

“When you and Luka were speaking earlier, he asked if your menses had ever affected your ability to Shout. That got Cicero thinking— you’ve never once mentioned them, in all the time Cicero has known you.”

“It’s not the most thrilling topic.”

“Cicero has had many sisters in the Dark Brotherhood, and no one thought it was odd when a sister needed to take a few days off each month to rest. But you never complain about monthly pains.”

Lumen shrugs, not liking where this conversation is going. “They don’t trouble me much.”

“We also do not use any contraceptive potions, and yet, you have not fallen pregnant.” 

“Honestly, Cicero. It sounds like you’ve already worked it out.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I’m barren. I can’t have children.”

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

“Malrian happened,” she says, and she’d like to let the topic die there. But Cicero wants to know, and it wouldn’t be right to hide this from him. Not after all they have been through. “It’s common practice among the Thalmor to give abortifacients to their slaves, lest they bear them any halfbreeds. Malrian gave them to me as a precaution.” Cicero’s expression shifts from concerned to murderous, and she quickly adds, “He never touched me. Not in _that_ way, anyway.”

Her answer does not comfort him, but he takes a few calming breaths before speaking again. “Are you okay? Do you— Did you want children?”

“No,” she says. “I suppose I like children. I like their honesty. But I don’t want any of my own. I don’t know if you’ve noticed— but I’m not a patient woman.”

Cicero laughs. “Your lack of patience is difficult to miss, sweetness.”

She is eager to be done with this subject. “Armor tonight?” she asks, her eyes raking over the shrouded leathers clinging to his form. The addition of the jester’s cap does not lessen how intimidating he looks. “You almost always wear your motley when we go hunting.”

“Well this man we’re killing tonight is rumored to be a bit of a brute,” he says. “Cicero thought it might be wise to exercise a little caution, even though it is his sweet Listener who will be in the most danger.”

“I like a little danger,” she says. “It really gets the blood flowing.”

“I do wish you would not be so blithe about this,” Cicero says, his voice weary with concern. “This man is—”

“I’m just kidding around.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I know the dangers. I _will_ be careful. I promise.”

He catches her hands with his, rubbing slow circles along the inside of her wrists. “Cicero knows you hate it when he worries. But he cannot help it. You are too important to risk.”

She lets herself relax into his touch. In that moment, everything is fine. There’s nothing to worry about, nothing to distract her from tonight’s goal— which will be killing a Nord brute and taking Cicero straight to bed.

She leans forward and captures his lips in a slow, searching kiss that grows more heated the longer they stay connected. They break away before things go too far and they lose themselves in each other, because the kill must come first. A soul must be sent to Sithis, the will of Mother done, before they can find their own pleasure in each other.

“Help me get dressed,” she says softly. “We’ve got a job to do.”

* * *

The Nightgate Inn is quiet. There is only the crackle of the fire and the occasional creaking of wood as the structure fights against the icy winds of the Pale. Hadring has retired for the night, leaving Storn Blackthorn to his own devices. It is all rather boring if he is honest. Some music would be nice, but their resident bard met her end by his hands. Company would also be nice, but Fultheim met the same fate. The only reason Hadring still lives is because Storn has no desire to fuck him.

The door opens and a cloaked figure slips inside, a flurry of snow following behind them. A flash of skin draws his eye as the newcomer pushes the door shut with a hand— _her_ hand. His mouth is already watering at the thought of that slender wrist breaking in his grip. He doesn’t know what she looks like, and it doesn’t matter. People fuck in the dark for a reason.

She brings her hands up to lower her hood, moving too slow for his liking. A prickle of anger nips at the base of his skull when he catches sight of her ears. Those would have to be docked. Even still, she is quite beautiful for an elf. Tawny skin, plush lips, and eyes like honey. Her eyes lock with his, and in a careless motion, she throws her cloak over the back of a chair. Her dress is that of a typical tavern wench, a simple design that amplifies the wearer’s assets.

Storn licks his lips, wondering which Daedra he had to thank for this treasure. Molag Bal, perhaps? She is all beauty and curves, and infuriating elven arrogance. Oh, he cannot wait to rip her confidence from her trembling hands, to have her bleeding and bared before him, her life dangling in his grasp.

“Hello, lovely,” he says, making a show of looking her over. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Taking shelter, obviously.” There is no bite to her words, but they rile him all the same. Storn is a man who expects submission, and he has little patience for sass. Especially from an elf.

He is already half hard and he hates himself for it. He hates her for it. No elf has the right to look like that. It doesn’t help that his senses are working against him. His eyes are drawn to the way the firelight dances across her breasts. Her scent is intoxicating, and if he breathes in deep enough, he can almost taste her.

“Do you want more than shelter?” He leans back in his chair, spreading his legs and rubbing his palm against the cock straining against his trousers. She doesn’t have a choice. But it’s always polite to ask.

A flicker of emotion passes over her face. Disgust, or perhaps amusement. Storn can’t tell, and he doesn’t really care. She’ll be dead before dawn. But to his surprise, she actually laughs. “What? _Here_?” She looks around, before turning her eyes back to him. “Or do you have a more secluded location in mind?”

His mouth twists into a cruel smirk. “If privacy is what m’lady wants, I can oblige.”

He leads her behind the bar and down a narrow staircase. The inn’s basement is almost as large as the inn itself. It is dark and damp, and it’s the perfect place for doing what he wants to do. It’s not as if he needs a bed when he can just throw the elf down in the dirt and have his way with her.

“I’ll give you five seconds to take that dress off. Otherwise, I’ll rip it off of you and fuck you like—” Something pricks the skin of his neck, and he lifts his hand to swat it away, but he finds that he can barely move. His arm feels as if it's made of lead. “What?” he asks dumbly, his vision swimming as he falls to his knees.

The elf comes to stand in front of him, slipping an object that looks like a dart into a black, leather pouch. “You’re going to do what to me now?” she asks, her voice muffled amidst the rushing in his ears.

“Going to—” he licks his lips, his tongue feeling fat and clumsy. “Fuck you.”

“That’s cute,” she laughs. “But actually, _you’re_ the one getting fucked tonight.”

There is no time to even consider what she means, because a force hits him from behind, knocking him face first into the dirt. A hand is pressing at the back of his head, and a knee is shoved hard into the perineum, making him cry out in pain.

“You’ve been a bad man, Storn,” the offender says, his voice unusually high. “Very, very bad.”

“You’ve been so bad, in fact, someone has done the Black Sacrament.” The elf kneels down, tilting her head so she can look him in the eyes. “Hello, Storn. My name is Lumen. I’m from the Dark Brotherhood.” Her mouth twists into a smile at that. “And tonight you're going to die.”

The knee against his perineum presses painfully hard, sending a wave of nausea through him. He tries to lift his head, but the poison the assassin bitch used against him is making it impossible to move. Unfortunately, it’s not doing a damn thing to numb this pain. “Didn’t hurt no one,” he grits out. “Got the wrong guy.”

“Oh really?” Lumen asks, genuinely amused. “So it’s some other Storn Blackthorn who’s been raping his way across Skyrim? I think not.” She grabs a leather satchel, rummaging through it as she talks. “You see, our patron was very specific. They knew where you’d be and they told us all about your sick appetites. They want you to suffer the same fate as your victims. But the only problem is that neither Cicero nor myself wish to sully ourselves with you. So I had to get a little creative…”

“You’re a unique monster,” Cicero comments. “You don’t care who you sate yourself with. Gender, race, and even species do not matter to you. You just like causing pain.”

“Don’t act like you’re better than me, assassin,” he growls, helpless in his anger. “You kill people for money!”

“Oh, this is true, but even Cicero has his limits.”

There is a brief moment where he thinks he might be hallucinating, because the elf pulls what appears to be a phallus from the leather satchel. Only this is no normal phallus. It’s tapered at the end and adorned with a sharp-edged spiral curling from base to tip. Despite the drugs crippling his body, he feels every muscle grow tense at the sight of the horrible thing.

“Excited?” Cicero breathes, his breath hot against his ear. “Oh, you should be.”

“Oh, gods. Oh, _gods_ no!” He cries, instinctively lapsing into prayer. “Mara, Mother of mercy—”

“Stop that.” Cicero flicks the shell of his ear. “That never helps anyone.”

The elf touches the disgusting thing to his face, dragging the tip along his cheek. “This is going _exactly_ where you think it is,” she purrs. “I know you’ve done a great number of depraved things, but I wonder if this is your first time taking it up the ass?”

“Please don’t! I’ll do anything, I swear! I’m begging you!” He struggles to breathe, his throat going dry in the wake of sheer panic. “Please! I have gold! I can pay you!”

“How many of your victims begged?” the elf snaps, her demeanor shifting from seductive to angry in a flash. “Did Fultheim beg? Did Svarti beg? What about the countless others you brutalized? Did _they_ beg?”

Storn can do nothing but whimper as the male shifts off of him and the female takes his place; her hand on his head and her knee shoved painfully between his legs. “Guess what, Storn?” she whispers in his ear.

“What?” he gasps.

“I’ve never done this to a man before. It’s my first time, and I’m a little nervous.”

Tears well up in his eyes. “Please don’t. Please, _please_ don’t.”

“Brace yourself,” she says, laughing cruelly. “Because I’m going in dry.”

* * *

“Is it done?”

The two assassins regard their patron, Hadring. The man looks weary. Dark circles under his eyes and lines of age etched across his face. He doesn’t meet their eyes, and Lumen does not know if he’s too beat down to care, or if he wants to avoid the risk of recognizing them in the future. It is unlikely. Cicero’s face is mostly obscured by a black, cloth mask pulled over his nose, and Lumen’s face is hidden in the same manner.

“It is done,” she tells him. “And he suffered, just like you asked.”

“Good,” he sighs. “It won’t bring back the others, but at least he won’t hurt anyone else.”

The inn is quiet as the man counts out his coins and hands them over to Cicero. The silence may have been uncomfortable to anyone else, but to Lumen, it is the sign of a job well done. Hadring undoubtedly heard Storn’s screams, just as he’d heard the screams of his many victims. He is coping with what has happened, and with that strange rush of power that comes from knowing someone has died because he willed it.

“Does this make me a bad person?” he asks, his voice a hushed whisper.

Lumen and Cicero share a look. “I can’t be the judge of that,” she tells him. “But if it makes you feel better, you probably just saved a lot of lives.”

“That won’t help me sleep any easier,” Hadring says, looking down at his hands as if they are bloody. “Murder is murder. I’ve paid you to do it. But it’s still my doing.”

“Time has a numbing effect,” Cicero says. “The shock will fade and sleep will come.”

The two assassins leave the warmth of the inn behind and step out into another cold, Skyrim night. The snow has stopped and some of the clouds have cleared away to reveal a brilliant sky. Crisp clear stars shine alongside a scintillating aurora, and Lumen allows herself a moment to become lost in the sight of it. Storn’s screams are still so fresh in her mind, his lifeless body still warm. She finally feels at peace after a successful kill.

Cicero is pushing her up against a tree, ripping their masks away and crashing his mouth against hers. He grinds against her, the hardness pressing against her thigh is definitely _not_ the pommel of his dagger.

“Listener, may I?” he begs, nipping at her jawline. She hesitates because she is dressed in a scrap of a dress, and warmed only by a cloak and her boots. But Cicero is so warm and so insistent, it doesn’t take her long to agree.

“Yes,” she groans, hooking her leg around his hips, her hand going to the laces of his trousers. They don’t need any coaxing. Now is not the time for foreplay— the act of murder is enough to get them going.

His gloved hand slides across her bared thigh and beneath the hem of her skirt. “Are you not wearing any smalls?” he asks, torn between amusement and confusion.

“I figured this would happen.”

He laughs, resting his forehead against the crook of her neck as he shoves his trousers down just enough to free himself. He tenses up when a cold breeze sweeps past them, and he begins to tremble when he sheathes himself in Lumen’s warmth. “I— do not know how long I can last,” he gasps. “Poor Cicero has been hard for _ages_.”

“It won’t take me long,” she breathes, wrapping her other leg around him now, giving him free reign to pound into her as hard as he likes. “Just fuck me now. Please.”

“Sweet Listener, you never have to beg your Cicero for this.” He hooks his hand beneath her thigh, pressing her back against the tree as he rolls his hips. The coin purse hanging from his belt jangles with each thrust, creating a veritable cacophony of noise within the still, snow-covered forest. “I could watch you kill for hours. I thought I had seen it all until tonight. Your imagination truly knows no bounds.”

Lumen breathes a laugh that quickly turns into a moan when Cicero angles his hips _just right_. “I can’t take all the credit. It was Lucien’s idea.”

“Even so, it was truly inspired.” His hips start to fall out of rhythm, his jerky thrusts signaling his impending climax.

There are no words when her body tenses around him, her breath escaping her lungs in a rush. Cicero is not far behind her, growling out her name as his body shudders, overcome with so much pleasure it threatens to become pain if it continues on. They immediately part when they are finished, as it is far too cold for any post-coital niceties.

Once their clothing is back in place they head toward the road to find Shadowmere waiting for them. The horse snorts when they approach, pawing at the ground impatiently as he waits for them to climb on. The two assassins do not dawdle, both eager to be home, and the horse takes off down the road when they are both settled on his back.

Yet another dark deed has been done. A black soul, full of hate and rage, sent to Sithis. The Night Mother will be pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so that one scene (you know which) was written after watching the first episode of American Horror Story: Hotel. The "drilldo" scene really stuck with me. It seemed like something Lucien would suggest... and something Lumen and Cicero would do. (I may need to go back and write out the scene where Lumen asks Arnbjorn to make the wretched thing. I bet that was an interesting conversation.)
> 
> Lumen's ability to sense the Sacraments is just me integrating a game mechanic into the story. There's no lore to support it. But I think the Listener would be able to know where a Sacrament is located since the Night Mother occasionally gives vague instructions.


	3. Walking a Trapline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: A tiny bit o' sexual content/humor.

It is still dark when Dawnstar comes into view. A blanket of clouds is cast across the sky, obscuring the light of the moons. Sparse lanterns placed along the road are the only guiding lights, but assassins have little need of such things when Shadowmere is safely leading them home. It is a peaceful night in the Pale, but Cicero is alert. If being with the Dragonborn has prepared him for anything, it is always to expect the unexpected. The best-laid plans will often go tits-up at the most critical moment.

Despite his caution, he allows himself to enjoy the feeling of Shadowmere’s steady gait and Lumen’s warmth pressed against his back. Those first few moments before the sun bursts over the horizon are always his favorite. The night birds sing their songs to the waning darkness, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf calls to his brethren. For a moment, it truly seems as if nothing can go wrong.

Until it does.

A figure appears near the main entrance to Dawnstar. Lumen grips his arm, a signal that she is aware of the potential danger. They often encounter bandits and thieves when they travel, but this is no mere brigand, as he had hoped. This one is different in a way that sets his teeth on edge. In the dim lantern light, he can see the outline of a tight, leather suit accented with stitched filigree. A cloth mask covers the man's face, and he holds himself with the fluid grace only an assassin could possess.

Shadowmere slows to a stop, but he does not remain still. His tail flicks in irritation, and he paws at the ground. The Daedric steed is as eager to spill blood as his two riders. “Easy,” Lumen murmurs, smoothing her hand down his neck before she addresses the man. “We don’t want any trouble. Move aside and let us through.”

“I will do no such thing.” The man’s thick Bosmeri accent is reminiscent of one who has spent little time outside of Valenwood and its surrounding lands. He has traveled far, that much is certain. “You and the Imperial are to die. Submit, and receive a quick, honorable death. Resist, and I will see to it that you suffer.”

“What the fuck,” Lumen hisses under her breath.

Eloquent as always, his darling Listener. “Stay back, sweet Lumen. This will not take long.” He dismounts Shadowmere, his daggers already in his hands.

The wavering purple light of a bound sword appears in the assassin's hand, while a spark of lightning blooms in the other. Cicero bites back a curse. Battlemages are always annoying to fight; if the weapon doesn’t get you, the spell certainly will. But he is quick, and he has more to lose here than just his life. If he falls, Lumen will fight for him, and he cannot risk her safety.

Cicero ducks when a stream of lightning arcs overhead, his hair rising as the scent of ozone fills his nose. He throws a dagger when he rights himself, and grins in satisfaction when the blade grazes the assassin’s thigh before it punches into the ground. Not a perfect hit, but a hit nonetheless. With a hand free, Cicero calls for fire. It sputters to life in his palm, and he flings it toward the assassin. Magic is not his strength, but even a weak spell can be a useful distraction tactic.

The assassin reels backward, the fire scorching his leather armor and knocking him off balance. Sensing an opening, Cicero moves in for the kill. But then, in a heartbeat, everything stops.

He’s not quite sure how the fight turns against him. He just knows what he sees; the bound sword vanishing into the aether, and a verdant smoke forming in the assassin's cupped hands. The cloud rushes forward, hitting him like a battering ram and sucking all the strength from his body. Behind him, he can hear Lumen’s vicious curse and the sound of her feet hitting the ground. He wants to tell her to stay back, because this magic is new and vile and he doesn’t know how to fight it off, let alone how to protect her from it.

_**“Tiid Klo Ul!”** _

Time remains very much the same for Cicero and the assassin, but Lumen whips around them in a streak of black shadow. It is a shame he cannot see the Bosmer's face. He always enjoys watching one’s expression shift from surprised to horrified when Lumen is upon them in the mere blink of an eye. As it is, he will have to make due with the spray of crimson that gushes forth from the assassin’s throat.

Once released from the grip of the assassin’s spell, Cicero checks himself for injuries. “Thank you, sweet Lumen,” he says, swallowing his pride. “Cicero was not expecting the wretch to use such a powerful spell. Er— Cicero is not sure what kind of spell that was.”

Lumen doesn’t respond, nor does she look away from the task of looting the assassin’s corpse. Cicero watches, fascinated, as she yanks his mask off and parts his lips. The Bosmer’s teeth are filed into sharp points that would tear flesh as brutally and efficiently as a serrated blade.

“He’s a Valenwood native,” she says, confirming Cicero’s suspicions. “But this armor— I suspected he might be a Thalmor assassin, or maybe even from the Morag Tong, but this is— I don’t know what this is. I find it hard to believe a Bosmer mercenary would travel all this way just to die.”

Cicero barks a laugh. “He probably thought he would win!”

“Maybe,” Lumen says, staring at a slip of parchment she pulled from the assassin’s pack. “But I think whoever sent the assassin knew we would kill him.”

“Well, of course! Cicero is excellent at killing! But it was not Cicero who killed him, was it?” He grins at her, hoping to get a smile out of her because her stunned expression is not comforting him in the slightest.

Lumen hands him the paper. “Tell me what you make of this.”

The parchment is crisp. It has all the signs of a letter that had been folded once and never reopened, until now. All it holds are the words, “What now, Cicero?” written in a fancy, swirling script. What now, _indeed_.

“I have no idea what to make of this,” he says, carefully folding the parchment. “I do not recognize this handwriting. I cannot think of anyone who would send assassins after me, either! All of Cicero’s old enemies surely believe he is dead, or are dead themselves!”

“ _Think_ ,” she grits out, her voice wavering with fear. “Look at the armor. His face. Tell me there’s something you might recognize.”

Cicero’s mouth flattens into a thin line as he stares down at the Bosmer. His armor is as unfamiliar as his face. There is no heraldry to link him back to an organization, and he carries nothing on his person save for the cryptic note. “I do not know him,” he says. “And I have never seen armor like that before.”

Lumen whispers a Shout. Even said beneath her breath, it is powerful enough to shake the ground beneath his feet and rattle the snow from the branches of nearby trees. A storm of dragon fire immolates the assassin’s corpse, wiping away all evidence of the Bosmer who traveled so far to kill them.

“He was sent by someone who knew we would be here.” Lumen chews on her lip before saying, “Someone is toying with us. Someone has been watching us.”

The hair along the nape of his neck rises at the very thought. “They knew we would be traveling this road at this time. They knew we would return to Dawnstar.”

Lumen nods. “Or somewhere close to it.”

Cicero immediately flies into action, roughly patting Shadowmere on the haunch and ordering, “Stables, _now_.” The Daedric horse complies, trotting down the road and turning into Dawnstar on his own.

“What are you—” her voice falters when he grabs her by the wrist and drags her into a nearby copse of trees.

He silences her with a look. “We must get to the secret entrance,” he whispers. “But we cannot be seen.”

Cicero can barely make out the rise and fall of her chest, but her panicked breathing slows into something more controlled when she lays her hand on his shoulder, a silent signal to proceed. He leads her through the trees, his mind whirling with questions. Is he the target, or is the entirety of the Dark Brotherhood in danger? He doesn’t know, and he hates this uncertainty. But one thing is certain; he must protect the Listener at all costs.

* * *

A short while later, Cicero and Lumen stand near the hearth in the kitchen, warming their cold hands. The Listener is silent, her face unreadable. But Cicero knows she is mulling over the events of the night, just as he is.

“You two are back sooner than I expected,” Arnbjorn says by way of greeting. He approaches them, but his smile quickly fades. “You two look like someone died, which is usually a good thing, but— what happened?”

Lumen doesn’t look away from the fire when she says, “Show him.”

“There was an assassin waiting for us on the road,” Cicero explains as he hands Arnbjorn the letter the Bosmer had on him. “We found this on his corpse.”

Arnbjorn stares at the parchment, his silver eyes studying every curve of the fancy script. He chuffs a laugh, his abnormally sharp canine teeth glinting in the firelight. “Who’d you piss off?”

“Cicero has no idea,” he sighs. “I did not recognize the elf or his armor. But I suspect he was a Thalmor, even if he wasn’t wearing the insignia. Cicero cannot think of anyone else who would send assassins after members the Dark Brotherhood.”

“It’s possible,” the Listener says, finally turning away from the fire. “But I don’t think Elenwen is involved. I know her. This isn’t her style. She wouldn’t taunt us.”

The sound of approaching feet draws their attention, and they turn to see Cyril and Babette coming down the stairs. The vampires are usually silent. But they are doing them a kindness by announcing their arrival. They can probably smell the fear coming off of them.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Babette says unapologetically. “Did you say you were attacked? By a Thalmor?”

“We don’t know who the assassin was working for— but yes, we were.”

“Mistress.” Cyril inclines his head. “I’ve been watching the Thalmor, just like you asked. I’ve not heard any whispers of an attack on the Dark Brotherhood. They seem to have their sights set on the Stormcloaks, and to a lesser extent, the Blades.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not the Thalmor,” Babette says. “This could be the work of a sleeper agent.”

Cicero huffs. “Maybe, but it is not as if Cicero runs around announcing himself.”

“You kinda do,” Arnbjorn quietly adds, but Cicero ignores him.

Babette turns her gaze to Cicero. “Regardless, you are _memorable_. If someone knew of you from Cyrodiil, it seems likely that they would recognize you by your description.”

“Maybe so,” Cicero says, his anxiety mounting. “But maybe not. I did not always wear this motley, you know. Did you think Cicero was born a jester? He just tumbled from his mother's womb with juggling balls in his hands?”

“Don’t be silly,” Babette says, exasperated. “But are you telling me you’re _not_ a trained jester?”

Cicero doesn’t know what to say. He never paid any mind to what his family might make of him. But _of course_ they would assume he was a jester-turned-assassin. They do not know about _the jester_ , and they did not know Cicero in the days of his youth. “Um, well—” He heaves a frustrated sigh. “You see, I—” He shakes his head and turns his pleading eyes to Lumen.

“Cicero didn’t wear the motley until quite recently.” A simple and effective half-truth. Oh, he could hug the life out of her— his sweet, forgiving Listener who never uttered a word of what she read in his journals, who kept them safe and hidden from prying eyes until she could return them to Cicero.

Arnbjorn has been quietly taking all this in. His arms folded across his broad chest and his brow furrowed. “So what you’re saying is no one from your past would know you from your current description?”

“It depends on how well Cicero is described. But probably not.”

“We should have expected this. Our popularity is on the rise, thanks to you, Listener.” Arnbjorn nods to Lumen, and she bites the inside of her cheek. He rarely refers to her by that title. “Word of our success will have traveled far and wide by now. Perhaps Babette’s sleeper agent theory isn’t too far off.”

“It’s possible that a handful of Malrian’s leftover agents were activated upon hearing about us,” she says. “But that doesn’t explain why they targeted Cicero.”

“Cicero is the last surviving member of the Cyrodiil Sanctuaries, and as we all know, an assassin’s work isn’t over until all targets are eliminated,” Babette says as she picks a bit of lint from her dress. “Cicero might not be the only one in danger. Arnbjorn, Nazir and I have been with the Dark Brotherhood for a long time, as well.”

“But you managed to survive the fall of the Dark Brotherhood,” Lumen says, watching Babette carefully. “I thought Falkreath was safe.”

“We were remote, and I believe that was all that saved us. The pine forest is treacherous to those that don’t know it. But other members of the Brotherhood knew where we were.” The little vampire smoothes the wrinkles from her skirt as she speaks. “The old Listener came to visit us once. She brought a handful of her closest companions from Cyrodiil, too.”

“Ah, Cicero remembers hearing about that. There were rumors of a traitor.”

“Yeah, this was before everything officially went to shit, though.” Arnbjorn leans against the dining table. “Don’t think that guy was Thalmor. He was involved in something else.”

"In light of this new information, I think everyone here should exercise caution. No leaving the Sanctuary alone. If we take contracts, we do it in pairs." Lumen looks to her assassins, ready to argue with anyone who is unwilling to split their pay just for the sake of safety. "Things can go back to normal once we kill whoever is after us."

"It would help if we had a better idea about who might be after us," Babette sighs. "I prefer solid facts to conjecture."

“I tortured a Thalmor when I broke into their embassy,” Lumen says without prompting, her expression grim. “He said the reason Malrian was able to bring the Brotherhood down was thanks to a traitor from within. An assassin was working for him. I assumed Malrian killed them when they outlived their usefulness, but perhaps that is not the case. Perhaps this traitor is the sleeper agent.”

Cicero closes his eyes, reveling in the darkness there. He is so tired of traitors and deceivers rotting his family from within. He is tired of being forced to wade through his past. Old memories are coming back to him in waves, and it's hard to face them once more. He doesn’t want to think about the fire that swept through Bruma’s halls or the screams of his dying siblings. He doesn’t want to remember the painful loneliness of Cheydinhal.

“Everyone Cicero knows from that time is _dead_.” Cicero tucks his hat into his pocket and runs his fingers through his hair. “Bruma. Cheydinhal. They’re all dead!”

“You don’t know which Sanctuary this traitor came from,” Arnbjorn says, his deep voice steady and soft, as if he is speaking to a wounded animal. “It’s possible you two never met, and they only know you by name and reputation.”

Cicero falls quiet. He is numb to his very core. Lumen comes to stand by his side, her hand resting gently on his shoulder as she speaks. “We’ll continue this discussion in the morning. We’ve been traveling all night, and we could use a rest.”

Her hand curls under his arm as their siblings murmur their agreement. Thoughts of the Dark Brotherhood’s fall weigh heavy on them all. The violence brought about by the Penitus Oculatus is still fresh. So perhaps they can understand Cicero’s pain. Falkreath was his third home, and it fell to ruin just like all the others.

“Come on, Cicero,” she says softly. “Let’s go.”

Cicero gets to his feet when his Listener commands it, and he follows her through the Sanctuary. The hallways whip by in a mossy blur, and soon he is bathed in the golden firelight of the Listener’s chambers. She guides him to sit in front of the waning fire, and she lays her hand upon his cheek. The tenderness in her touch threatens to shatter him.

“Cicero must apologize,” he says, forcing the words out before they get stuck in his throat. “The Listener should not have to coddle the Keeper so. Dupre would have gelded Cicero for showing such weakness.”

This is uncharted territory for them both. Cicero often buries his grief under layers of sarcasm and bad humor, and the Listener would sooner walk through Oblivion than deal with her issues. But here they are, up to their elbows in emotional muck, and they are forced to wade through it, lest they drown.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she says. “I understand your anger. We all do.”

“Cicero will try to answer your questions if you have them.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It is— easier with you. Just you. With the others, it feels too much like an interrogation."

Lumen glances at his stack of worn, leather bound journals. “Can I—” she makes a noise of frustration. “Would you—”

“Lumen,” he sighs. “Cicero is fine. This will not break him.”

“Your journals,” she begins slowly. “When did you start writing these?”

“When I was traveling to Cheydinhal. Bruma had fallen. Cicero was the only survivor.”

A strange emotion passes behind her eyes, but he cannot name it. “How long were you at the Bruma Sanctuary?”

“Five years.” He runs the pad of his thumb over a line of stitching in his armor. “May Cicero ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“How long have you had Cyril watching the Thalmor?”

“Since we took Northwatch Keep.” She brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs. “Cyril’s vampire abilities make him an excellent spy. I’ve had him watching the Blades, too.”

“I am surprised you utilize him so much,” Cicero says, a grin tugging his mouth. “With him being an Altmer and all.”

“He’s loyal to the Brotherhood,” she says. “That’s all that matters.”

“Oh, Cicero doesn’t know,” he hums, grinning when she narrows her eyes at him. “Cicero thinks you might be growing rather fond of our undead brother. Should he be worried? Is he going to be replaced?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Cicero is quite serious,” he continues, even though Lumen is muttering a soft curse and rolling her eyes. “Cicero thinks there’s something about the sickly pallor of his skin that really gets you off.”

He knows he’s won this battle when she snorts out a startled laugh. “Quit being weird,” she says, a grin curling her mouth.

“A tall order, but Cicero will do his best to honor it.” He is giddy with anxiety— but also relief. Even after the events of the night, he can still bring a smile to his Listener’s face. “You should rest, sweet Lumen. It has been a long night.”

“That it has,” she says, getting to her feet. “Are you coming with me?”

Cicero looks down at the journal in his hands. It is worn and frayed at the edges— just like him. “Not yet.”

* * *

When dawn arrives, Cicero is still sitting on the floor of the room he shares with Lumen. He’s been searching his journals for any mention of a notable enemy — or an old friend — who might wish him dead. But he’s found nothing. These old journals were not for his private thoughts, but an account of his experiences within the Brotherhood. As such, they were no more detailed than they had to be, lest they fell into the wrong hands. His personal journals burned long ago. They were nothing more than lengthy tomes of prolix and prose that contained a lifetime of sorrow between the pages, and they served him best as kindling.

They have done their best to bury their pasts, and they do not often speak of them. Such things are rife with information that could get them killed. Every twist and turn, every relationship or friendship formed along the way could lead them to ruin. It is a small blessing Astrid never knew of Lumen’s history with the Thalmor.

He never thought someone from his past would come back to haunt him. Could it have been someone from before his life with the Brotherhood? How many people has he killed? How many children has he left motherless? How many lives ruined because of his blades?

Exhaustion sinks deep into his bones, further compounding his frustration with his poor memory. Having spent so much time focusing on the present, he never realized how much he lost until now. All that time spent guarding the Night Mother and waiting for a sign— it all blurs together. Ten years and it’s nothing more than a spotty, passing of time that was so unremarkable his mind couldn’t be bothered to record it accurately.

“Are you still awake?” Lumen stretches and rolls onto her stomach, squinting her tired eyes at the multitude of candles surrounding him.

He closes the journal with a snap. “Did Cicero wake you?”

“No.” It’s a lie— but it’s a lie for his benefit, so he’ll let it slide. “Come to bed?”

“Cicero will not be able to sleep,” he says, although he does go through the motions of undressing. Curling up with his Listener is not a terrible idea. He doesn’t need sleep as long as he can spend a few hours alone with her. “Cicero does not mind being hunted. It is rather exciting. But he would prefer it if his Listener were not in immediate danger.”

“I’m not scared,” she says, pulling him into the cradle of her arms. “I have you. There’s nothing to fear as long as you’re with me.”

He swallows thickly. “Your faith in Cicero might be misplaced,” he says, sliding his hand inside her nightshirt and resting it on her stomach. It's a great effort not to cling to her.

“Is it?” Her fingers card through his hair. “We survived the fall of Falkreath together. We killed Malrian together. We _killed a god_ together. My faith is hard-won, Cicero. But you have it. You always will.”

He wonders if she is trying to break his heart. His Listener is not a woman inclined to gentle touches and sweet nothings, but here she is, putting her faith in a fool like him. Maybe it will be different this time, because there is a new Listener, and small — but fiercely loyal — Brotherhood at her beck and call. Maybe it will be different because dragon fire burns within her heart, and she is not _just_ a mortal, but one who has been touched by the gods.

“Will you tell me a story?”

Her question startles a laugh out of him. “What kind of story?”

“Let's see," she murmurs, her fingers drifting across his shoulders and rubbing the tension from his tired muscles. "How about a contract?"

“Oh, very well.” A weak smile forces its way across his lips. “Cicero will tell you about the first contract he took when he arrived at Cheydinhal…”

* * *

_Cicero blew a strand of hair out of his eyes as he fidgeted with his clothing. He hoped Baroness Jania liked him. Things would be so much easier if she liked him. Rasha seemed to think she would as long as he kept quiet and played his role well. He never had to pose as a prostitute before, but it wasn’t hard to get into character. It was an easy task, despite Rasha’s poor advice. He told Cicero to look cute and to keep his mouth shut. Apparently, no one appreciated his wagging tongue. Although he was certain his lady friends — and some of his male friends — did appreciate it._

_“So you’re the one the agency sent?” came a haughty voice, and Cicero found himself looking up at the stern visage of the Baroness. “You’re a pretty one. How old are you, boy?”_

_He regarded his mark. She was the wife of a baron who moved from High Rock to Cyrodiil for his health. He often gallivanted with the locals, while she spent his money as if gold was going out of style. It was a common enough scenario, and surprisingly, it was not her husband who wished her killed. She had a taste for young boys, and her sick perversions would prove to be her undoing._

_“Seventeen, your grace,” he said, which was a blatant lie. Cicero was halfway through his twenties! But his small stature and delicate features aided him in this ruse._

_“A bit old for my liking,” she tutted. “Very well, take off your shirt— and be quick about it.”_

_Cicero obeyed, his deft fingers undoing the tiny, pearl buttons. It pained him to part with the velvet overcoat and silk shirt. They were the finest clothes he’d ever worn. But could always return for them when the Baroness was dead. It would be a shame to get blood on them, after all._

_Her withered finger traced the line of his abdomen before she withdrew and said, “Show me your cock.”_

_“What?” he blurted, forgetting himself._

_“Take your cock out,” she snapped. “Or you can return to your master and have him send me someone more biddable.”_

_It was an effort not to laugh. “Yes, your grace. Forgive my insolence. It will not happen again.” He unlaced his tight breeches and revealed himself. Rasha must be laughing his ass off by now. Surely he was aware of what the Baroness would ask Cicero to do. Not that he minded. Cicero had no hangups about the appearance of his privates, but he’d rather not show them to some withered harridan._

_The Baroness eyed him appreciatively. “Follow me.” She spun around, her skirts billowing behind her as Cicero followed her up a flight of stairs. “You are to pleasure me orally first,” she said upon entering her private chambers. “If your service is to my satisfaction, we might move on to other things.”_

_Cicero wondered if this was a ritual hazing. It was customary for some sanctuaries to put their new members through their paces. It was obvious no one wanted to degrade themselves with this contract, so they gave it to the new guy. He wondered if he’d ever live this down._

_“Close the door behind you.”_

_He pushed the door shut, and while his instincts told him to search for an emergency exit, he was woefully distracted by her bedroom. It was the gaudiest thing he’d ever seen. There was pink decorative paper on the walls, ribbons everywhere, and a rather extensive collection of ceramic cats. The room smelled of stale perfume and camphor. Not a terrible odor, just one he associated with sweet old ladies. Not— whatever this wretched woman was._

_The Baroness seated herself upon a large pouf. “Come here, boy,” she said in a voice that might have been sultry at one point in her life. She gathered her skirt in her lap and spread her legs. “I don’t have all night. Get to it.”_

_It took all of Cicero’s self-control not to flinch— or scream, or gouge his eyes out, or set himself on fire. Oh, by all the Aedra and Daedra, and everything else in between. This was the worst contract he’d ever accepted. If he lived for a million years, he would never unsee this._

_“I realize time is of the essence, but do we have to rush?” he asked as he approached the Baroness, comforted by the weight of the dagger hidden in his boot. “A true gentleman would never dream of rushing his lady’s pleasure.”_

_She smiled at him. “You’re a sweet one, aren’t you?” Her eyes followed his every movement, watching him with a lust that made him pity every boy that came before him. “I don’t need any coaxing if that’s what you’re wondering.” And just to add to his mounting horror, she slid her hand along her thigh, beneath her skirts, and moaned._

_Oh, gods. His cock was dead. He just knew it. It would never stand at attention again._

_His feet carried him closer to the wretched woman. But rather than kneeling between her legs as instructed, he stepped around her, trailing his fingers across her shoulders. “My lady, you are positively ravishing,” he said, his voice calm even though he was shrieking internally. “I look forward to watching you in the throes of your little death— and your real one.”_

_In less than a second, the dagger was in his hand, and the blade was kissing her throat. Blood cascaded down the front of her dress as she fell forward. She died face first upon the ground, with her arse in the air. A fitting end, for one such as her._

_“I’m going to fucking strangle Rasha,” Cicero grumbled as he cleaned the blade on her dress. He bore no true ill will toward the Khajiit. He welcomed Cicero into the fold with a warm hug and a list of chores. This contract was just another part of his initiation. At least it would give his brothers and sisters something to laugh about. Laughter was in short supply these days._

_With the dagger back in his boot, he glanced around the room for anything worth pilfering. But he didn’t see anything he liked, although he did consider taking a ceramic cat home to Rasha— just to be rude._

_He sighed and pulled the hem of his trousers away from his waist. “I’m sorry, old friend,” he said to his cock. “You will recover in time. Perhaps we will visit Skingrad sometime. Go to the inn and chat up the barmaid with the magnificent tits. After that, we can visit that guard with the affinity for swordplay. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”_

_A sound drew his attention away from his suffering manhood, and he looked up to see a maid standing in the doorway. He’d been so distracted by the Baroness; he’d completely forgotten his instructions. “The house will be empty save for the Baroness and her handmaiden,” Rasha had told him. “The contract is only for the Baroness, but you may kill the handmaiden if you wish. Your bonus will not be forfeit.”_

_Cicero gave her a winning smile and said, “Hello.”_

_The handmaiden gaped at the late Baroness, and then at the shirtless man who had been holding a conversation with his privates— and screamed._

_“You’d better run, you stupid girl!” He laughed, reaching for the dagger in his boot. “Run!”_

_She was still screaming when she bolted through the door and down the hallway. Cicero was on her heels, laughing and taunting her as she turned a corner to rush down the stairs. But the dress was long, and she stepped on the hem, toppling head over heels down the staircase, and landing in the foyer with a sickening crack._

_“Ooh.” Cicero winced. “That looks painful.”_

_He descended the stairs, rushing to get to his discarded clothes before the handmaiden had a chance to bleed on them. Skirting around her body, he snatched the shirt and jacket from the floor. He dressed quickly, eager to collect his payment and drink away all memory of this night._

_Later, he would enter the Sanctuary to the hoots and hollers of his amused siblings. Rasha would clap him on the back and offer him a brandy, and after a night of raucous celebration, Cicero would eventually retire to his quarters to add a new entry in his journal:_

_**1st of Rain's Hand, 4E 187**_

_Completed the Baroness contract. She died well. Her handmaiden, less so._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there are a lot of flashbacks in this story, I've decided to write them in past tense. I hope the switch in tense isn't too jarring.


	4. Foreign Eyes

_It was bitterly cold this far north, but the beauty of the Jerall Mountains was not lost on her. Malrian had whisked her off to some mountainside retreat— a home of a friend, he said. They’d been there for a week, and in that week Malrian had done nothing but work. Countless justiciars and guards had come and gone, all seeking an audience with her master._

_Lumen was left to her own devices. Malrian didn’t have to worry about her wandering off, as she avoided the snowy terrain like the plague. It was boring, and a little lonely, but it wasn’t all bad. She had books to read and flowers to press, and some of the nicer guards would entertain her with stories of their travels. Still, she often found herself craving the company of her master._

_It was past midnight when the sound of distant thunder woke her. She bore a deep, primal fear of thunderstorms, and though she knew her master would scold her, she had to find him. He was the only one who could chase this fear away._

_The house was freezing, the stone floors painfully cold on her bare feet. But she wrapped a wool robe around her body and made her way through the dark, empty hallways, to where to master’s chamber was._

_“Master?” She leaned against the door. “May I come in?”_

_No response. It’s possible Malrian was asleep. But her fear of the storm overrode her fear of punishment, and she pushed the door open. The room beyond was far colder than the rest of the house. The doors that lead to the balcony were thrown open, and her master stood outside, his eyes focused on some far off point. He looked terrifying silhouetted against a dark sky, and the glow of a distant fire._

_“Master?”_

_Malrian turned with a start. “Did the noise wake you, pet?”_

_“Yes,” she answered, confused by the still, starry night. “I thought it was a storm.”_

_“It is no storm. Come and see, my girl.” He beckoned her forth._

_She approached him cautiously, more out of habit than anything else. He laid a hand on her back when she stood beside him, and she gaped at the sight before her._

_There was a town beyond the mountains. Small and quaint. Bruma was the northernmost city in Cyrodiil and a common resting place for people traveling to and from Skyrim. But now part of it was on fire. Great plumes of flame erupted from the western side of the city, and the screams of the dying carried on the wind._

_“What’s happening?” she asked._

_“History,” he said with a smile. “This is what has kept me so busy for months. This is why we are here. Everything will change after tonight.”_

_That was vague, but she knew better than to ask for clarification. Her master was in a good mood, and she would not be the one to ruin it. A knock at the door saved her from having to form a response, and Malrian pulled away from her, leaving her on the balcony. She stared at the burning city, wondering who could have been unfortunate enough to draw her master’s wrath._

_Whoever they were, she pitied them._

* * *

The next few days pass without incident. Dawnstar greets the same assortment of travelers; traders and fishers, and certainly no Thalmor or random assassins. Everyday Lumen wakes with the desire to set things right. She wants to tell Cicero about this strange feeling. A Sacrament is out there — she just knows it — and she doesn’t understand why the Night Mother has said nothing. But every time she tries to tell Cicero about it, she is struck silent by the lines of worry marring his face. 

Lumen knows almost nothing of his time in Cheydinhal, aside from what he’s willing to share and what is written in his journals. But there was an eight-year gap in his writings, and she doesn’t know what happened during that time. Cicero certainly won’t tell her. She just knows his loneliness nearly destroyed him. It definitely changed him.

Knowing that she lived with the man who caused Cicero so much pain makes this entire situation _so much worse_. Malrian’s fortune doubled after his men successfully destroyed two sanctuaries, and Lumen was his cosseted little pet, dressed in finery that was paid for with the blood of the fallen. It’s not as if she could’ve done anything to stop it, but she remembers that night. Only she didn’t understand it’s significance until much later.

“I don’t mind your company, tidbit,” Arnbjorn says from his place near the forge. “But the moping is getting old. I’m willing to listen if you need to talk.”

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek. Arnbjorn has become a dear friend to her, and even though they are occasional lovers, they are both careful not to show too much vulnerability. It is a notable event that he is even offering to listen to what troubles her. But he’d probably shout at her if he knew she was keeping Mother’s silence a secret.

“I’m not moping. I’m thinking.” She boosts herself up on his workbench, swinging her feet.

“You’re a shit liar,” he says, placing a newly sharpened sword on a rack.

“I am not.” She eyes him appreciatively when he approaches her. The forge is hot, and Arnbjorn shucked his shirt some time ago. “Besides, this room has a lovely view. Not a bad place to do some thinking.”

A small grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t change the subject. I’ve had Cicero in here pestering me to let him help, and now you’re in here— sulking, by the looks of it. What’s wrong?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She heaves a frustrated sigh. “I want to help Cicero, but I don’t know how.”

He leans on the workbench, his arm touching hers. “You’re both pent up. So why don’t you work it out in the old fashioned way? Surely there’s someone out there that needs killing.”

She makes a small noise of agreement. “Maybe. I suppose I could commune with Mother and see if she’s got something for me,” she says, her eyes riveted to the fire of the forge, the wall, anything but Arnbjorn. The heat of his body is distracting. She wouldn’t mind getting lost in him for a while, but right now— Cicero’s needs are greater than her own.

He grabs her chin, gently forcing her to look at him. “Don’t let this thing get to you. I understand why it’s got Cicero so out of sorts, but one of you has got to remain focused.”

“I know. I am focused, I swear.” A little smile curls her mouth. “I was trying not to ogle you.”

“I'm serious, tidbit.”

“So am I!” she laughs. “You can’t just walk around without a shirt and expect me not to look!”

He breathes a laugh. “I don’t care if you look.”

“Well, it’s distracting,” she says, a little breathlessly. “And believe it or not, I am trying to stay focused on the task at hand rather than bedding the resident werewolf.”

“Oh, dear,” comes Cicero’s voice, and Lumen turns to see him leaning on the doorframe. “May Cicero watch?”

Arnbjorn heaves a long-suffering sigh. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” he says, entering the room and hopping up on the table beside Lumen. “So, Cicero will ask again— may he watch? He likes to watch. Lumen enjoys an audience. You might like it, too. This is a win-win-win situation if you ask me.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not asking,” Arnbjorn grumbles, pushing away from Lumen and retreating to the safety of his forge. “Beat it, the both of you. I have work to do.”

“Come on, let’s leave Arnbjorn to his work.” Lumen hops off the table and urges Cicero to do the same.

She loops her arm around his and practically drags him to their bedroom. It’s all she can do to prevent him from pestering the rest of their siblings along the way. Cicero has been doing anything and everything to keep his hands busy. From helping Babette sort her ingredients, to helping Arnbjorn in the forge, and Nazir in the kitchen. He’s driven them all mad with his need to help.

“Listener?” A nervous smile quirks his mouth. “What do you have in mind?”

“Mother has a task for us.” Oh, she hates lying to him. But she can’t stand the thought of giving him one more thing to worry about. “We have a contract. Only, I need to contact the petitioner myself. I can’t send Nazir to do it for me.”

He perks up at the promise of a task. “Where are we going?”

“We’ll be traveling south.” She wonders if she looks as uncomfortable as she feels. “My instructions were uncommonly vague, so it may take some searching to find them.” Lies upon lies. Surely there is a deep, dark, horrible place in the Void reserved for Listeners who lie to their Keepers.

“Vague? Is Mother testing us?” 

“Maybe,” she says, feeling sick at her stomach. She knows he would be questioning this if he weren’t so overwhelmed.

Cicero moves around the room, grabbing potions and spare clothes. He neatly packs them in a satchel, humming as he works. Typically Lumen would help him pack, but she leaves him to it. “Where shall we start looking?” he asks, counting out a set of throwing daggers before packing them away.

“I’ll find the location of the Sacrament,” she tells him. “Hopefully the petitioner won’t be too far off.”

“How do you always seem to know where the Sacrament is?”

Ah, this she can tell him. A drop of honesty in a sea of lies. “I can sense it. It’s a feeling that gets stronger the closer I get to the site of the Sacrament. It starts as an itch in the base of my skull, but it turns into a headache as I get closer.”

Cicero breathes a wistful sigh. “How wonderful that must be. Cicero wishes he could be so connected to the forces of the Void.”

“Honestly, it’s a very strange feeling.”

“Still,” he says. “Can you feel it now?”

“Sort of,” she says, unlacing her tunic. “Help me into my armor, will you?”

“It will be good to hunt again,” he says, his dark eyes raking over her form when she pulls her shirt over her head. But rather than looking her over in a lustful manner, fear etches across his features as his eyes remain riveted to the large scars on her torso. Remnants of Alduin— wounds given to her by a god. Wounds that will never completely heal. “Is it safe for you to look for this petitioner?”

“It never is,” she says. “But I will be safe as long as you are with me.”

“But the Thalmor—”

“Fuck the Thalmor,” she seethes. She hates them. She hates this fear that haunts her fearless Cicero. “Malrian couldn’t stand against us, and whoever is hunting us now will die with my blades in their back!”

Cicero draws back, but there is a spark of his old self in his voice when he says, “Sweet Lumen you cannot say such things to Cicero when you are half-naked.” His eyes roam over her body, and this time, he does not see her scars. “Such talk might delay our departure.”

“So we’re leaving after all?” she asks, not letting him change the subject.

His arms encircle her waist, and he buries his face where her neck meets her shoulder. “You are right. We cannot sit idle, and we cannot hide. Cicero was forced to hide when he lived in Cheydinhal. He will not do it again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cicero was made to say home. Rasha said it was Cicero’s job to guard the Sanctuary. It only got worse after he was named Keeper. Cicero wonders if he could have made a difference. Maybe Garnag and Andronica would still be alive if they’d only let Cicero help.”

“Are you serious?” she asks, utterly dumbfounded. “You’re one of the most amazing killers I’ve ever met! And they just locked you away?”

Cicero preens at that. “Well,” he breathes a laugh. “I had plenty of time to hone my craft, but— Oh, who am I kidding? I was pretty amazing back then, too.”

“Of course you were,” she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Relieved to have something of her old Cicero back, even if he is only hiding his worry beneath a mask of good humor. She welcomes the change. “Come on. We have work to do.”

* * *

Leaving the Sanctuary proves to be more trouble than she expects. Babette forces extra healing potions on them, and Nazir makes sure they have enough supplies to survive for weeks. But the most fussing comes from Luka and Arnbjorn, who are bitter over being left behind. Arnbjorn makes them wait so he can sharpen their blades, and Luka fusses at Lumen to remember to practice casting while they are on the road.

They leave Dawnstar without incident, and their travels through the Pale are hardly noteworthy. There are a few passersby; a handful of merchants and a group of bandits. But the brigands take one look at their weapons and armor, and decide to wait for an easier mark.

“How were you chosen to be Keeper?” Lumen asks as she nervously fiddles with Shadowmere’s reigns. “Was there a test?”

“You have read Cicero’s journals before, yes? You ought to know!”

“Yeah, but that was a long time ago now, and I only read them once.” And just to soften him up, she adds, “I only read them because I missed you— but I felt guilty for prying. Just tell me. Please.”

“Oh, very well,” he sighs, but his smile doesn't falter. “A vote was held shortly after the Listener died. The Night Mother had been quiet for too long, and it was becoming apparent that she would not choose a Listener for some time.”

“I guess I just assumed there was a Keeper already,” she admits. “Was there not?”

“Oh, no. Keepers are an ancient tradition, and there had not been one for hundreds of years.”

“But who took care of the Night Mother?”

“The Listener did.”

Lumen bites back any further questions. She has an endless amount, but she doesn’t want to overwhelm him. “You know, when Astrid told us you were coming to Skyrim, I didn’t know what to think. I thought you’d be a withered old man,” she tells him, her voice turning wistful when she adds, “but I also pictured a man cloaked in black, with the blood of a recent kill staining his nails.”

“Cicero can tell which one you were hoping for,” he says with a laugh.

She ducks her head, hiding her smile. “I got what I wanted,” she murmurs. Even though Cicero had not been a mysterious stranger dressed in black, he’d been just as enthralling.

“Did you want to be the Listener?”

The question surprises her. She never considered what she wanted before. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I was drawn to the Night Mother. I was curious. But I wasn’t secretly hoping she’d speak to me.”

“Cicero was afraid he’d have to punish you for skulking around the Night Mother's shrine at all hours,” he says, his grin as sharp as a Daedric blade. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone!”

“How would you have punished me?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder at him. “That is a serious question, by the way. I’m not flirting.”

“As you say,” he concedes, but it’s obvious he does not believe her. “Traditional punishments usually include chores like latrine duty, and so on. More severe penalties include the breaking of fingers or flogging. We are not to kill or harm our siblings, so one must be careful to ensure that punishment does not become torture.”

“Which one would you have chosen for me?”

“None,” he says, his voice dropping low. “Cicero would have given you the option to skirt your punishments by doing some favors for him. You did help him repair his wagon, after all. So Cicero was prepared to show a little mercy.”

The sudden flood of heat in her core makes her dizzy. “What sort of favors?” she asks, knowing this conversation might derail their travel plans. “Tell me.”

His breath is hot against her ear when he says, “Cicero would’ve had you on your knees.”

She sucks in a breath as her imagination runs wild at what might have happened. Would she have slapped Cicero? Would she have gone for it? Would she have slapped him _and then_ gone down on him? In her mind, she can see his wicked eyes watching her as she slides down to her knees and—

“Poor Cicero needed all the help he could get,” he continues. “Scrubbing the floor around the Night Mother’s shrine was exhausting work. Falkreath was a _filthy_ Sanctuary.”

“You shit!” She swats at him, which is quite difficult considering he’s behind her. But she does manage to clip him on the thigh, which mollifies her somewhat. Shadowmere snorts a complaint at the sudden movement, and Lumen pats the horse to soothe him.

Cicero cackles. “What were you thinking, hmm? Do you think Cicero is so depraved, so _devious_ , that he would use his seniority to take advantage of his sweet sister?”

“Yes, I do!”

“And what would you have done?” he asks, resting his chin on her shoulder to get a better look at her. "Cicero wishes to know."

“I’m not going to tell you,” she says, looking away from him so he cannot see her smile. “You're a brat, and you don’t deserve to know.”

They trade insults and jokes for a while. Their playful banter serving as a pleasant distraction from their worries. They do not speak of the Bosmer assassin, even though they are careful to watch the roads for any potential danger. Hours pass without incident, which is more disconcerting than someone attacking them outright.

The assassins leave the chilly planes of the Pale behind them as the bright afternoon sun bleeds into a violet eventide. They fall silent as night finally turns upon them, and the city of Whiterun looms in the distance.

“Are we getting close?”

“Yes, and no,” Lumen says, her eyes flitting from shadow to shadow, afraid of who might be watching them at this very moment. “I think we need to go further south. But I’m not sure where. There’s Riverwood, what’s left of Helgen, and Falkreath.”

“Perhaps we should rest,” he tentatively suggests. “It is dark, and poor Cicero can no longer feel his rear.”

“That’s a good idea. I lost all feeling there hours ago.” She tugs on Shadowmere's reigns, guiding him toward Whiterun. “We’ll stay at the Drunken Huntsman tonight. I have friends there—”

Cicero chuckles. “ _You_ have _friends_?”

Lumen ignores his teasing and continues to say, “I haven't seen them in ages, but they were always good company in the past. I think they will like you.”

* * *

In hindsight, the Drunken Huntsman may not have been the best place to go for a rest. Elrindir, Anoriath, and Jenassa were thrilled to see Lumen, and even more delighted to meet Cicero. Together, they succeeded in getting both Lumen and Cicero very, very drunk. As a result, they are sleep-deprived and nursing hangovers, but they are both in high spirits from a night spent in good company.

“Where to first?” Cicero asks before drinking deeply from his waterskin. Neither of them can seem to get enough water after a night of heavy drinking.

Lumen yawns as she looks over her well-worn map of Skyrim. “We’ll go through Riverwood first, then take the road south to Helgen if we find nothing there.”

“Helgen was destroyed, was it not? Has it been rebuilt?”

“Doubtful,” she says, folding the map and tucking it into her traveling pack. “The bandits will have free reign of that city until the war is over. No jarls are willing to dedicate time or resources to rebuilding right now.”

“Will you two hurry up?” comes a gruff voice. “I didn’t travel _all night_ just to watch you two dick around.”

“Arnbjorn?” Her head whips toward the sound of his voice, and she finds him offering an apple to Shadowmere. The horse is saddled and ready for travel, and Arnbjorn is wearing the armor that given to him by none other than Hircine himself. “I thought I told you to stay put!”

“No yelling, please.” Cicero rubs his temples. “Poor Cicero’s head might explode.”

“I was concerned, as was the rest of the family. We came to the conclusion that you and Cicero might need some extra help,” he says, glaring at her for snapping at him. “And so here I am.”

“But it’s dangerous to travel alone!”

“My wolf form is fast and has eluded hunters before.” Arnbjorn takes Shadowmere by the reins and leads him to where Lumen and Cicero stand. “You weren’t missing me? Not even a little?”

She scowls at him for teasing her. While she is pleased he decided to show up, she’s reluctant to let him know. “I’d miss you more if you hadn’t blatantly defied my orders.”

Cicero approaches Arnbjorn, his cap pulled down over his eyes to block out the sunlight. “Dear brother, do you happen to have one of Babette’s little hangover cures on you? Poor Cicero is dying.”

“I didn’t think you’d be the one asking me for this.” Arnbjorn grins at Cicero when he hands him a small vial. “What did you two get up to last night? Or do I not wanna know?”

“Met with some old friends and had too much to drink,” Lumen says, grabbing at the horn of the saddle and pulling herself up. Her hangover is slowly ebbing away thanks to the generous breakfast she had earlier.

Cicero seats himself behind Lumen, his hands resting on her hips. “Cicero is glad you are here, brother. He would have perished on the road had you not had that cure on you.”

“How do you plan to travel?” Lumen asks, glancing down at him. “Shadowmere can’t hold three people, and I don’t plan to ride slowly.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Arnbjorn says, resting his hand on the horse’s side and urging him to start walking. “I’ll shift when it’s safe to do so. I can travel faster that way.”

They follow the winding road southward. It is afternoon, and the road is thick with travelers. Arnbjorn is not able to shift into his wolf form until they reach the mountainside path that will lead them up to the chilly mountains, and down into the gentle warmth of Riverwood and beyond. To anyone else passing by, Arnbjorn just looks like a large, tame wolf traveling with his masters. But when they reach Riverwood, he elects to avoid the town in case one of the local hunters sees him for what he is. He meets up with Cicero and Lumen once they pass through the town.

“We’re getting close.” Lumen curls her fingers around the back of her neck, squeezing the tension from her muscles.

“Are you well, sweet Lumen?” Cicero’s hands come up to rub her shoulders, even though his efforts are for naught thanks to her thick leather armor. “We can stop for a rest if you need it.”

The call of the Sacrament wraps around her throat like a gentle, guiding hand. It’s difficult to focus on anything other than the insistent demand of a call to be answered. She can feel it so strongly, but why couldn’t Mother? Why didn’t she say anything?

“No. The Sacrament is in Helgen. I have no doubt.” 

Arnbjorn rumbles a growl, but he does not have to shift into human form to convey what he’s feeling. None of them wish to enter Helgen. But occasionally bandits have need of the Dark Brotherhood, just like anyone else. They travel quietly, save for the soft plodding of hooves and the panting of the wolf. Helgen sits on the crest of a small hill, the walls still standing even after most of the city was destroyed by a dragon. It is a testament to Nordic craftsmanship. The gates are flung open, and on either side are corpses strung up on ropes and pikes. The stench of death hangs heavy in the air, but that is not enough to frighten the Listener away.

“We’ll travel on foot the rest of the way,” she says, dismounting Shadowmere with ease. “One can never be too careful with bandits.”

“It is strange that no one is guarding the city,” Cicero says, his feet hitting the ground. “Cicero does not like this at all.”

Arnbjorn noses at her hand to get her attention. “Find an alternate way in,” she says to the wolf. “And a quick exit in case things go badly.” He stares at her, his silver eyes full of questions. “I don’t expect things to go badly. It’s just setting up a contract, right? But Helgen hasn’t been safe since Alduin razed it, and I’m not willing to take any chances.”

The wolf darts off into the trees to search for another way inside. Lumen takes a deep, steadying breath and approaches the gates, her daggers at the ready. Cicero is beside her, armed and alert. They leave Shadowmere waiting on the road. The horse can take care of himself should the need arise.

“Hello?” she calls out, but no one responds. She walks deeper into the little town, and toward the source of her headache. The Sacrament sits in the middle of what may have been the town square, yet no one is actively performing it. The anointed knife lays to the side, and the candles have burned down to nubs. Lumen pushes the candles over with her foot, snuffing out the flames. With the circle disturbed, the spell is nullified, effectively ending the relentless pounding in her head.

A chill washes over her when she hears the barest of movements up in the ramparts. Her throat grows tight as she lifts her eyes to the city walls. There, she sees at least a dozen leather-clad assassins — not unlike the Bosmer who came after them — armed with crossbows. Her anger surges like a storm at sea, and she cannot speak without losing control of her _Thu’um_.

There’s a reason Mother said nothing about this Sacrament— and it’s not because she was unable to. It’s because it is a trap, and her stupid, foolish Listener just walked right into it.

Without warning, she chucks her dagger at the nearest assassin, the blade hitting them square in the chest. Cicero grabs her and pulls her behind a crumbling retaining wall as the assassins unleash their bolts. The arrows rain down all around them, punching into the ground and sending little plumes of dirt into the air.

“Killer aim, my sweet,” Cicero says as he reaches for his throwing knives. “But I think you have upset them. Your Voice might be useful right about now.”

Panic threatens to consume her. Of all the stupid, half-thought out things she’s done, this is the worst of the lot. It will be a small miracle if Mother even speaks to her after this— assuming they get out alive.

“Lumen!” Cicero nudges her. “Snap out of it! Shout! Do something!”

“I don’t know what to do!” The grim reality of their situation is crashing down all around her. They are prey. Someone is hunting them down. It's not a game. It is real.

“Now is not the time to panic!”

A shriek from above them grabs her attention, and she peers over the wall to see Arnbjorn’s wolf running along the ramparts. He tears into an archer, as the ghostly form of Lucien Lachance cuts down another. Masked assassins are climbing down the ladders, to get away from their attackers and to come after Lumen and Cicero. They do not care if they die, as long as their victims die too. It is truly terrifying to face an enemy that has no fear of death.

Cicero leaps out from behind the wall, daggers at the ready. But a stray bolt hits him in the shoulder with a dull thud. The pain is enough to bring him to the knees, and that’s when Lumen loses all sense. She does not fear pain, or death— she fears losing him. If there is anything in this world that could break her, that would be it, and she’ll be damned if a handful of half-wit assassins tear them apart.

A scream of fury tears from her throat as she runs toward their attackers. She Shouts at the approaching assassins, calling forth a great, roiling bursts of dragon fire. They don’t have a moment to cry out in shock or pain as they are engulfed and instantly immolated by the flames.

“Nice one,” Cicero grits out. His arm is tucked tightly against his body, keeping his injured shoulder still. “Cicero may have to sit the rest of this one out. The bolt is quite deep.”

“Take cover,” she tells him, her eyes upon the assassins that are still on the ramparts. “This won’t take long.”

Bolts zip by as she ascends the ladder, and she grits her teeth, ready to endure the pain of being hit. But Lucien and Arnbjorn keep the archers distracted enough that their aim is poor, and Lumen makes it onto the ramparts unscathed. She counts six assassins still fighting. The others are either bleeding out or dead. One poor fool is desperately trying to put his guts back where they belong, but to no avail.

The killing calm settles over her, sharpening her vision and muffling the din of battle. _“One,”_ she counts as she ducks down to avoid a bolt, and jabs her knife into an assassin’s groin. _“Two.”_ Another rushes up behind her. She spins around to meet him and buries her dagger in his gut. _“Three— four.”_ Two assassins die screaming thanks to the combined efforts of Arnbjorn and Lucien. _“Five.”_ The fifth assassin gives her some trouble, and she barely avoids his blade. But Lucien is there in a flash, his daggers buried in the man's kidneys. She can sense the last assassin coming up behind her, and she turns around in time to grab her wrists. _“And this is six,”_ she silently muses as she struggles to disarm her would-be killer.

“Give up,” Six growls. “More will come. We will never stop.”

“I’m not the type to give up.” Lumen grits her teeth as she takes a step back, her fingers still clenched around Six’s wrists.

Lucien’s appears behind her attacker. With a hand on the back of her neck and one around her belt, he yanks her out of Lumen’s grip. He flings the woman over the edge of the ramparts. She screams as she topples over the edge, but the scream is quickly cut off when she lands with a loud thud.

“What was that for? I had her!”

“You were taking too long,” the ghost says. “I thought I’d help.”

“I wanted her alive!” she shouts, irritated with the smug specter.

He peers over the edge of the ramparts, a sly grin curling his lips when he says, “she will live.”

Lumen curses as she makes her way to the ladder. “Come with me, Lachance. We’ve got an assassin to interrogate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm traveling for work and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to post an update this week. But I managed to find a secure connection (that didn't drop out) so here I am~ posting from lovely (humid omg) New Orleans! :D
> 
> Newsflash: Cicero cannot hold his liquor, and Lumen is occasionally very, very stupid. Many things will be revealed in the next chapter, and we're going to end up with a very unhappy Keeper. I'm pretty excited about the next chapter because that's when we start getting into the nitty-gritty of the story. It's written, but it still needs editing. I'll have it up in a week or so.


	5. The Hunted

“How’s your shoulder?”

“It twinges a bit,” Cicero replies, his voice abnormally high. A sign that he is in a significant amount of pain, but reluctant to admit it.

Lumen carefully inspects the wound. The crossbow bolt is deep— very deep. It would require a skilled healer to mend the damage done to his shoulder properly. She knows she could remove the bolt and ease some of his discomfort, but she fears damaging him further. While she has dissected enough victims to have a vague understanding of human anatomy, she is not willing to test her knowledge on Cicero.

“Here,” she says, holding up a vial of milky liquid. “For the pain.”

“Cicero would prefer to keep his wits about him,” he says, eyeing the vial with suspicion.

“I know.” She bites her lip when their eyes meet. “Just take a little. Something to take the edge off, at least.”

Arnbjorn heavy footsteps signal his arrival, but Lumen does not look up from her task of fussing over Cicero. “She’s awake,” he says.

Lumen glances over her shoulder. The assassin is splayed on the ground, her face twisted in pain— or fear. Lumen cannot tell. “She’s not restrained?”

“She’s not going anywhere. That fall broke her back.”

“Serves her right,” Cicero says, his words followed by a wheeze of pain. “Ah, sweet Lumen, Cicero has changed his mind. He would like some of that potion, after all.”

“We’re not far from Falkreath, and Zaria is a decent healer,” Arnbjorn supplies as Lumen helps Cicero drink from the vial. “She’s not as skilled as Luka, but she could help.”

“All right,” Lumen says, smoothing Cicero’s hair away from his sweaty forehead. “We’ll leave as soon as we deal with the assassin.”

With Cicero taken care of, Lumen gets to her feet and steps over to the assassin. She’s a Breton woman of about middle age. Her face is pale and sweaty, but her green eyes follow Lumen’s every move.

“It’s a done deal, elf,” she snaps, her voice strained. “It’s been done for years. It doesn’t matter what you do to me, or to those who come after me. We won’t stop until the Brotherhood is no more.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s what we have been paid to do.”

Lumen tilts her head, regarding the woman carefully. “And what about you? Why are you personally involved?”

She snorts. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re a death cult? The Brotherhood— what a fucking joke. How many families have been torn apart by you? And for what? Money?”

“Yes, well, it’s what we’ve been paid to do,” Lumen says, her lips twisting into a sneer. “You don’t get to berate me over my life choices when you are guilty of the same acts.”

“The Dark Brotherhood isn’t a family.”

“So you say.” Lumen looks to her brothers; Cicero and Arnbjorn, and even the ghostly form of Lucien Lachance. They mean everything to her— _more_ than everything. “But the Dark Brotherhood is _my family_ , and I won’t let anyone hurt them.”

“Save it for the Night Mother.” The Breton grins at her. “It was she who sent you walking blindly into a trap.” Lumen clenches her jaw, and the assassin continues. “There’s no honor among thieves and no love among assassins. Your Night Mother sent you to your deaths. You’re a fool if you think she gives a shit about you.”

“How dare you,” Cicero growls, struggling to get to his feet. “How dare you speak ill of the Night Mother!”

“Sit _down_ , niblet.”

“Who are you working for?” Lumen asks, the very essence of forced calm. “Malrian is dead. Who has taken his place?”

The woman breathes a strained laugh. “I don’t know who gives the orders. They come to me by dead drop, and I follow them. Nothing more.”

The truly unfortunate thing is that she’s probably telling the truth about that, and it frustrates Lumen to no end. “If you can’t give me anything useful, then I don’t see the point in keeping you alive.”

“There isn’t,” the woman says. There is an impressive strength to her voice, even now. She is broken beyond repair and on the brink of death. Yet, she will not shy away from what’s about to happen.

“Lucien,” she says, looking up at the ghost. “Give her a clean death.”

The ghost moves to the Breton's side and drives his dagger in her heart. A pregnant silence falls over the group when the assassin breathes her last. Her brothers are mulling over what she said earlier, whether they want to or not. They are all wondering; did the Night Mother send them to their deaths? Did she know?

The truth is worse. But her brothers deserve to know, even though they may hate her for it. “The Night Mother did not lead us into a trap,” Lumen says. “I did.”

“Come again, tidbit?”

A sharp breath escapes her, something between a laugh and a sob. “There was no contract. Mother did not tell me to come here. I could feel the Sacrament calling to me, but Mother— she said nothing. This mess is my fault.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said, Cicero,” she sighs. “I _lied_. I thought something was wrong with the Night Mother. But now I know why she didn’t speak. She didn’t tell me about this Sacrament because she knew it was a trap.”

“You should have told Cicero!” he cries. “He would have prevented you from this foolishness! He would have known something was wrong!”

“Would you?” The question is a clear challenge, though she doesn’t mean it to be.

“If the Night Mother is silent, it will be because she chooses to be, not because she unable to speak,” he says, his voice pitched in a growl so deep, it raises the hair on the back of her neck. “Cicero is a good Keeper. Cicero knows Mother is well-tended. He would have known something strange was going on.”

She can barely look at him, because the fury in his eyes is heartbreaking. “I didn’t want to give you something else to worry about.”

“Well, that worked out quite well! You nearly got us killed! And now we are miles away from civilization, and Cicero has this godsforsaken bolt stuck in his shoulder— do you even care, Listener?”

“Of course I care,” she says weakly. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“Because you lie like other people breathe! You lied to Cicero about the Night Mother. You said she gave us a contract when she did not. Cicero can forgive so many things, but this—” he sighs, struggling with his words through his anger and pain. “This is verging on _heresy_.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispers, and she looks to Arnbjorn and Lucien. Seeking either support or condemnation, but getting neither. Both men look as if they’d rather be somewhere far away from the quarreling lovers. They all know this is more than just the simple case of one assassin lying to another. It’s _more_ than heresy. She has hurt Cicero. Badly.

“If you ever lie to me about something like this again, I swear to Sithis I will—”

“You’ll _what_ , exactly?” She knows he is careless in his anger and that he would never harm her, but her dragon blood will not ignore the threat. “Who follows whom, here?” Perhaps it is stupid to pull rank at this very moment, but she can’t help it. Her anxiety has turned to raw irritation in the wake of Cicero’s rage.

Cicero curses as he gets to his feet. He paces around the courtyard to blow off some steam. After a moment, he whirls around to face her, a storm of emotions passing over his features before he settles on anger. “Cicero serves the Listener, yes,” he says, every word carrying a sharp edge. “But to serve does not mean to follow blindly. If the Listener cannot be honest with Cicero, then he will— he will have to distance himself.”

Lumen sucks in a sharp breath. Of all the things she expected him to say, that was not it. “What do you mean?” she asks, although she does not require clarification.

“You are my Listener, and you always will be until the day I breathe my last,” he says, some of the anger bleeding from his voice. “But if Cicero cannot trust you, then that is all you will be.”

The hurt in his words is startling. Cicero has always been so unflappable, but nothing can cut right to the core of him like her lies can. He has remained impervious to her countless harsh words and selfish actions, but this, it seems, is the last straw.

Lumen is all too aware of how hard her heart is pounding. _“I will not cry,”_ she promises herself. There is little reason to cry over lost lovers. They will come around or they won’t, and all the tears in the world won’t get her what she wants most. Cicero’s forgiveness will have to be earned. The trust she so carelessly shattered will have to be repaired.

Cicero shuffles over to Arnbjorn, his gait wavering. “Cicero may need your help,” he murmurs. “He cannot climb on top of Shadowmere in this state.”

A soft breeze tugs at her hair as she watches Arnbjorn gather the wounded Keeper in his arms. Shadowmere remains still while he attempts to seat Cicero without jostling him too much. There are a few hissed curses, but soon Cicero is in the saddle.

“I’ll walk,” she says when Arnbjorn looks to her. He nods, taking Shadowmere’s reins in his hands and leading the horse out of Helgen.

They follow the road to Falkreath, not a single word passing between them as they travel.

* * *

Zaria is able to remove the bolt from Cicero’s shoulder and staunch the bleeding. But she claims she is not skilled enough to heal it completely. She packs the wound and provides a sling for his arm, and sends the assassins on their way. After a stilted conversation between Arnbjorn, Cicero, and Lumen, they decide to take the path through the pine forest, and then north again.

Shadowmere leads the way through the woods, with Arnbjorn at his side. Lumen walks a few paces behind them, needing some alone time to sort through her thoughts. They all grow tense when they reach the edge of the pine forest. This place was their home until Astrid’s hubris brought destruction down upon them. Memories — both good and bad — cling to the pine like dewdrops. 

She breathes in the sweet air of the forest. Oh, how she _missed_ this place. She missed the clean scent of the pines, and the wood smoke coming from the nearby town of Falkreath. She loves the way the fog curls around her ankles, and the feel of the humidity clinging to her skin. This forest was her first home in Skyrim, and it will always be close to her heart. Even if being here makes her heart ache with the memories of a Sanctuary lost.

“We can afford no distractions, Listener.” The gossamer voice of Lucien Lachance reverberates through her ears, summoning a wave of gooseflesh across her arms. “Keep your wits about you.”

“I’m not distracted,” she says quickly. Ever since her brush with death, the specter has become her constant shadow. Sometimes it is flattering, but right now it’s downright annoying. “Am I not allowed to think?”

“Should I take my leave?”

“Stay,” she sighs. “I apologize. I shouldn’t take my anger out on you.”

“There are worse things to endure,” the ghost says with a chuckle. “I would advise you if I could. But I avoided relationships in life. I had those whom I passed the time with, but nothing quite as involved as you have with the Keeper.”

Lumen huffs a bitter laugh. “I assume you didn't get involved because of situations like this?”

“Heartache is a distraction an assassin cannot afford,” he says as he floats along beside her. “I had one lover I favored above the rest. She was my Silencer— and then she was my Listener. When she was so named, I never asked for anything that she was not willing to give. I did not ask for honesty, or loyalty, or love, because she was the Listener and who was I to demand anything? That she gave me any of her time was a gift I did not deserve.”

She stares at the ghost, soaking up the information. This is the most Lucien has ever said to her in one go, and while she has a million questions to ask him, she ought to start with the most pertinent one. “Are you accusing Cicero of insubordination?”

His ethereal form flickers momentarily, like a flame caught in an errant breeze. “Perhaps.”

“Tell me about your Listener.” She hopes to guide the conversation elsewhere. Preferably away from anything involving Cicero. They both need time, and she will not punish him for yelling at her. Their ranks within the Brotherhood have little to do with their relationship, regardless of what Lucien thinks.

“Her name was Threnody,” he says, his voice wavering with rare emotion. “That was not her birth name, but a name she chose when she joined the family. She was beautiful and deadly. You two are not dissimilar.”

“Except she had the good sense to keep her lovers at arm’s length.”

“Yes.”

“Are you not angry with me, too? For lying?” she asks, watching him from the corner of her eye.

He is quiet for a heartbeat too long. “You had your reasons for doing so. However, if you are seeking counsel, I would suggest being more forthright in the future.”

She sighs at the rather obvious piece of advice, but she quickly forgets about the conversation at hand when Shadowmere slows to a stop. Arnbjorn is standing perfectly still, his silver eyes flashing in the moonlight. They are very close to their old Sanctuary; it is just off the road, down a familiar, sloping path.

“Is something wrong?” she whispers.

“There are fresh footprints here,” he says slowly. “And too many scents. Leather and blood, and something I don’t recognize.”

“It could be more assassins,” she says, her pointed ears twitching at every sound.

Arnbjorn grows more tense with each step he takes toward their old home. “Someone is in the Sanctuary.”

“Are you sure? We sealed it up ages ago... It’s nothing more than a tomb.”

“We should kill them for disturbing the grave of our fallen siblings,” Cicero says through clenched teeth, and he kicks Shadowmere into a trot, the horse carrying him down into the rocky alcove.

“Wait!”

She follows him down the path with Arnbjorn on her heels. Both are fussing at Cicero to slow down because he is in no shape to fight. But the Keeper is having none of it, and he dismounts Shadowmere on his own, even if it causes him great pain to do so. There are no words as they all look to the entrance of their old Sanctuary. The Black Door had once been covered with rocks— sealed from trespassers and scavengers alike. But now it is unsealed, and its strange, ethereal heartbeat welcomes them home.

“It’s not safe,” she says, hoping to get him to see reason. “Cicero, please listen to me—”

“No, _you listen_ ,” he snarls, and she takes a step away from him.

A flicker of hurt passes behind his eyes when she does, and while she knows his physical pain is causing him to lash out more than usual, she is still wary. She does not fear _him_ , so much as she fears herself. She fears losing control of her _Thu’um_ , because every time he snaps at her, she can feel it rising to the challenge. It’s building within her chest like an explosion, waiting to break free.

“Please.” He tries to force his voice into something calmer. “We cannot just ignore what’s happening here. We cannot just allow an outsider to disgrace the grave of our fallen siblings.”

“He’s right,” Arnbjorn says, and that’s when Lumen knows she’s lost the fight. “Even fallen, the Sanctuary is a sacred place.”

“All right,” she concedes. “Lucien, guard the road. Let us know if anyone approaches the Sanctuary.” The ghost bows and drifts off to patrol the area, and she turns her attention back to Cicero. “Arnbjorn and I go in first,” she says, her tone brooking no argument. She wants to tell him that he’s too important to risk and that she couldn’t live with herself if something happened to him. As it is, seeing him wounded and knowing it is her fault is nearly killing her.

“Cicero still has one good arm,” he says irritably. “He is not helpless.”

“I didn’t say you were,” she sighs, giving up on reasoning with him. It’s not worth it; not when he’s still so angry. Instead, she grabs her daggers and approaches the door.

The Black Door’s ethereal voice reaches her ears, the old greeting nearly bringing tears to her eyes when she hears it. _“What is the music of life?”_

“Silence, my brother,” she whispers, her voice shaking.

_“Welcome home.”_

The magical locks within the door unlatch, and Lumen carefully pushes the door open. Falkreath Sanctuary smells nearly the same— of metal and petrichor, but there is the underlying scent of rotting flesh and ash.

Arnbjorn nudges his way in front of her. “I’m going in first,” he says. “Just in case.”

She does not argue with him, and she follows him inside the old Sanctuary. Some part of her is glad to set foot inside her old home again, and another part balks at the thought of disturbing her fallen siblings. After the Sanctuary had burned, they laid Astrid, Gabriella, Veezara and Festus to rest there. But she thinks they would welcome the company of their siblings over whoever’s broken in.

They move down the stairs and into the old, destroyed foyer. The bodies of the fallen were laid to rest in Astrid and Arnbjorn’s old bedroom, and then it had been sealed up. Based on the footprints on the floor, she can tell someone tried to get inside, saw what was in there, and then promptly sealed the room again. An odd thing for a thief or a potential assassin to do. Even stranger is the light coming from the main hall of the Sanctuary. A small fire flickers within, throwing odd shadows across the floor. If someone wished to kill them, they wouldn’t make their presence so obvious would they? If this is a trap, it’s not a very good one.

“Look.” Arnbjorn directs her attention to a pile of bodies in the foyer. But they are not the Penitus Oculatus; they are bodies of the assassins that are hunting them. A trail of blood stains the stairs that lead to the main hall, as if whoever fought the assassins was wounded in the process. Did they have dissent in the ranks? Did one of their own betray them?

“Who’s there?” comes a voice from deep within the Sanctuary. “You don’t belong here. I suggest you leave unless you want to join your comrades in death.”

Lumen and Arnbjorn share a look, but it is Cicero who speaks first. “We are the rightful heirs of this Sanctuary, and _you_ are trespassing!”

A pause, then, “do you really think I’d fall for that?” The sound of a dagger sliding from its sheath follows the question. “Come on. I don’t have all night.”

Arnbjorn descends the stairs with Lumen and Cicero right behind him. He makes a soft sound of surprise, but Lumen doesn’t wait around to find out what has startled him so. She shoves in front of him, her eyes on the stranger standing in the middle of her old home, and Shouts him across the room. The man drops his weapon when he goes flying, and he lands hard when he crashes into the word wall at the far corner of the chamber.

“Wait a moment.” Arnbjorn’s hand on her shoulder stops her from moving in for the kill. “I recognize him. I met him years ago. He was part of Alisanne Dupre’s entourage.”

“That doesn’t mean we can trust him!” she snaps, pulling out of his grip. “Dupre is dead, and there was a traitor in the ranks!”

“Yes, there was a traitor, and the bastard is still alive,” the man gasps, rubbing his head as he gets to his feet. “And I’ve been on the run ever since.”

“Pontius,” Cicero whispers, his eyes wide. “Cicero thought you were dead.”

The Imperial raises his hands in supplication as he cautiously approaches the group. “I very nearly was,” he says. “Please, I’d like a moment to explain. You may kill me if you decide I am not to be trusted. At this point, I think I would welcome the rest.”

Any other day, Cicero might be a little more welcoming of an old friend, but he is in no mood to show mercy. The wrath in his eyes could end worlds, and Lumen is glad to have a few feet between them at this moment. “You had better start talking,” he growls. “Garnag said a bandit ran you through! Yet, here you are.”

“It was Garnag who ran me through,” Pontius says bitterly. “He caught me as I was coming back to the Sanctuary, put his sword right through me. I almost died, but I guess I got lucky.”

Lumen’s eyes rake over the stranger. He is, in a word, gorgeous. Pale, olive skin that would tan if he spent more time in the sun, eyes as green as a field in the midst of the spring rains, and long, sable hair. He has the face of an aristocrat with his sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, and full lips. That face is as much a weapon as any blade, and she wonders how many of his victims fell in love with him before they died.

“Prove it,” Lumen says, the words coming out so suddenly, she startles herself. “Show us the scar.”

“If you insist,” he says, eyeing her with uncertainty. His deft fingers make short work of the belts crisscrossing his well-worn armor, and he slides the leather jacket off, carefully laying it on a nearby rock. He wears a thin, linen shirt beneath his armor, and he pulls it up without hesitation. There is an old scar just beneath his heart. It is the same width as a typical broadsword. A similar, albeit smaller, wound is on his back— the exit wound. Lumen’s eyes roam across his figure. Scars of all shapes and sizes decorate his body, and there are fresh cuts along his forearms, possibly given to him by the now dead assassins in the foyer.

“Garnag did that?” Cicero’s face is unreadable, but his voice carries the wounds of betrayal. “Why?”

Pontius smoothes his shirt down, but he does not bother with the rest of his armor. “Because he was paid to do it. It was Garnag who killed Andronica, and he did not defend the Listener when the Thalmor’s mages cornered her. He tried to kill me and—” His voice wavers. “ _Sithis_ , Cicero, I thought he killed you, too.”

Arnbjorn folds his arms across his broad chest. “Something seems a bit off, here.”

Cicero narrows his eyes, scrutinizing every word falling from his long, lost brother’s lips. “I find it hard to believe that an Orc is working for the Thalmor.”

“Gold is gold, old friend. It doesn’t matter who supplies it. The Thalmor got their gilded claws into Garnag and one other— someone from the Wayrest Sanctuary, although I don’t know who. There could be others, but believe me, acquiring information on the matter has not been easy. The assassins are Thalmor trained, and they do not give up their secrets lightly.”

“Why are you here?” Lumen asks. “Why now? Why did you wait so long to come to Skyrim?”

“I will admit to some cowardice. You must understand, I thought I had lost everything and _everyone_ I ever cared about.” He looks to Cicero upon saying that. “How did you survive?”

“Tenacity.” The word carries more venom than Cicero intends. “Cicero spent a decade rotting in the old Sanctuary, and you never came home!”

“It was too dangerous,” Pontius says, exasperated. “Cheydinhal was crawling with Thalmor. I just thought if you were alive and the Night Mother was safe— well, I couldn’t risk you. I refused to be the one who lead them to you.”

“I’ll ask again,” Lumen cuts in. “Why are you here?”

“The Falkreath Sanctuary seemed like a safe place to hide. But it’s been compromised. The assassins know the passphrase, but I am not sure how they got it.”

“The Sanctuaries are not impenetrable,” Lumen says, fearing for the safety of the Dawnstar Sanctuary more and more. “If someone wants inside badly enough, they can usually find a way. The Penitus Oculatus razed this one quite easily.”

“Yes, that— I heard about that.” He looks to the foyer, then back to Lumen. “I’m sorry about disturbing our fallen siblings. I didn’t realize they were here.”

“I doubt they minded,” Arnbjorn grumbles. “Astrid always liked you anyway.”

“Is she…” Pontius’ expression falls when he realizes Astrid must be one of the carefully wrapped corpses. “I am sorry for your loss, brother.”

Arnbjorn just shakes his head. He never wanted sympathy for Astrid’s death, and he certainly never wants to talk about it.

“So what now?” Lumen’s nerves are getting the better of her, and she begins to pace. “We can’t stay here if the assassins know the passphrase, and you need to convince us of your innocence. You could be one of them."

“I am not sure how to convince you otherwise,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I may have some information on the assassins, but I don’t even know if it’s true. However, I could share it, and if it pans out, then I will kill them all for you. Would that prove my innocence?”

The Breton woman’s words echo in her head, _“There’s no honor among thieves and no love among assassins.”_ Would he give up his own just to get in good with the Dark Brotherhood?

“It is a good place to start,” Cicero says, turning his attention to her. “We should give him a chance, yes? There is a chance he is lying, but there is also a chance he’s not.”

“I’ll kill him myself if he’s lying,” Arnbjorn says.

“I would expect no less, brother.” Pontius inclines his head. “Let me prove myself. Please. I have spent so much time running. I just want a chance to help the Dark Brotherhood. I want an opportunity to do what I should have done years ago.”

“Very well,” Lumen sighs, unable to ignore the feeling of dread creeping over her. “Tell us what you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did consider giving this chapter the title “Lumen stepped in the poopy” but I restrained myself. XD I reckon she’s gonna be in the doghouse for a while.


	6. A Change of Heart

_The newly named Keeper stood at the end of a small, four poster bed. His fingers trailed beneath one of the knobs where the polish had worn away. It was his fault— sort of. A few days prior, Pontius had bound his wrists to the posts. It had been a pleasant — albeit, unexpected — way to spend an evening._

_“Of all my siblings, I think I will miss you the most,” he said as if Pontius could hear him somehow. He hoped he could._

_His journal laid open, the ink from his most recent entry still wet:_

> _**16th of Rain's Hand, 4E 191** _
> 
> _Pontius is dead. A Dark Brotherhood assassin was killed by a common bandit while walking the streets of Cheydinhal. How can something so sad be so funny?_

_It wasn’t funny. It really wasn’t. But Cicero was unable to stop the inappropriate laughter that bubbled up from his chest every time he thought about it. He knew if he didn’t laugh; he would cry. Pontius would most certainly be disgusted with him if he cried over his death. They knew the risks of becoming assassins. They knew the risks of staying loyal to the Dark Brotherhood._

_There were always risks, certainly. But there were rewards, as well. He and Pontius had begun to find comfort in each other only a few months ago. They needed a distraction. With so much death and grief, it was nice to be able to find a moment's peace within the arms of a friend. That friendship had slowly turned into something more, which was foolish on both of their accounts. But Pontius was dead, and whatever their hearts had in store for them no longer mattered._

_It was Garnag who delivered the news. He said a common thug hunted Pontius down, stabbed him, and left him to bleed out on the streets. Cicero did not believe him, and he left in search of the body, only to find out that it had burned on a mass pyre. It was a grievous insult for a Dark Brotherhood assassin to be cremated with the rotting refuse of the city; with criminals, the unclaimed, and those who were too poor to afford a proper burial. They were all tossed on the pyre and lit aflame, their souls sent to any scavenger deity who would have them. At least Pontius would be claimed by Sithis. Cicero could find comfort in that._

_Garnag appeared in the doorway of the dark bedroom, armed and armored, with a pack slung over his shoulder. “I’m going to find some food,” he said. “I won’t be long.”_

_“Let me come with you,” Cicero said, hoping he didn’t sound like he was begging. He needed to feel the sunlight. The moonlight. The wind. Anything but the stagnant, stale air of the Sanctuary._

_“No,” the Orc said. “It’s not safe. You stay here, Keeper. I won’t be long.”_

_He watched Garnag go. The sound of the Sanctuary door slamming shut made him cringe. He was well and truly alone. The silence was deafening. Maddening._

_With a sigh, he laid down in Pontius’ bed, breathing in his scent. Soon it would be replaced by the stench of mildew that permeated the ancient Sanctuary. But in the meantime, Cicero would revel in the familiar smell of his friend until it was no more._

* * *

To say that Cicero is having a bad day would be the understatement of the era.

His Listener, his darling, beloved, _infuriating_ Listener lied to him. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, but he thought they’d moved past such things. It’d be easy to forgive if it were a little white lie. But to lie about a contract, and lead them into danger? Cicero isn’t sure he can let this one go. How _could_ she? After everything they’ve survived; Alduin, Malrian, and Astrid’s treachery— what more does he have to do to earn her trust? His life would be so much easier if she would just _talk_ to him.

To make matters worse, they are standing in a fallen Sanctuary, and Cicero is face-to-face with a ghost from his past. Only Pontius, who he’d long thought dead, is alive. Pontius — beautiful, deliciously wicked Pontius — whom he grieved for, is right there in front of him.

“Tell us what you know,” Lumen says, her golden eyes fixated on the stranger before her, watching for any sign of deceit.

“The assassins that I killed,” he begins, his Imperial accent curling around every word. “They didn’t realize I was here when they came in. I think they meant to see if they could find any clues as to where the Brotherhood relocated. But I overheard them talking about a base of operations, possibly one of many.”

“I’m listening,” Lumen says, motioning for him to continue.

“It’s in a cave. In a place called— eh, the Reach?” He scratches a hand through his hair. “My apologies. I am not familiar with this country. I know Cyrodiil like the back of my hand, but Skyrim is foreign territory for me.”

“We’re familiar with the Reach,” Arnbjorn says, taking a calculated step closer to the Listener. He’s guarding her, and he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “But there are hundreds of caves there. Specifics would be helpful.”

“I’m afraid that’s all I know.” Pontius keeps his attention fixed on Arnbjorn and Lumen as if he expects them to attack him at any given moment. "I tried to bleed a little more information out of the assassins, but they were rather tight-lipped about it all. So I bled them out, instead."

Lumen curls a strand of hair around her finger as she considers this new information. “I find it hard to believe Madanach would allow a bunch of assassins to take up residence in his territory. But there is a chance he may not even know about it.”

“Who?” Pontius asks, curiosity alight in his eyes.

“The King of the Forsworn, for lack of a better term.”

“I didn’t know those feral Bretons had a king,” he says, his lips curling in amusement. “Skyrim is an interesting place.”

“You might not want to call them that to their faces,” Lumen says. “Unless you _want_ a new scar to add to your collection.”

“We should probably just ask Madanach or one of his people if they have seen anything odd. That’ll be the fastest way of figuring out if he’s telling us the truth.” Arnbjorn turns to address Pontius. “If this pans out, it won’t vet you entirely. But it’s a start. It may keep us from killing you, at least.”

“Fair enough, brother.”

“How does this vetting process work?” Lumen rests her hands on her hips and surveys the men in the room. “Pontius isn’t the first sibling to have to earn their way back into the Dark Brotherhood, surely.”

Despite his wish to remain silent, Cicero decides to speak up. “Until we establish trust, the sibling in question is not allowed to plead their case. They must be patient until the facts are revealed, and a judgment is made. Such decisions are typically made by the Black Hand, but we three will have to do.”

“Is he allowed to talk at all?” she asks, her tone turning sour as her eyes meet his. Cicero realizes then that she is not necessarily referring to Pontius.

“To a point,” he says, a little tersely. “But a wise assassin would avoid muddying their apology with excuses.”

Lumen inhales sharply through her nose, prepared to hurl some vitriol at him, no doubt. But Arnbjorn sighs and says, “Not now, tidbit.”

Cicero does not miss the look Pontius gives them upon hearing the nickname. A true assassin through and through. Everyone around him is under heavy observation. But what is he trying to learn? Is he curious about his potential new family? Or is he searching for signs of weakness? One giant, gaping weakness would be the rift between Cicero and the Listener, and it’s only a matter of time before he sees it for what it is.

He catches Pontius watching him, but he turns his attention to Lumen when their eyes meet. “Pardon me, sister,” he begins. “I was wondering if I might have your name? I suspect it isn’t ‘tidbit.'”

A startled laugh escapes her. “You can call me Lumen.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lumen.” He bows with a flourish, not unlike the way Cicero introduced himself to her all those years ago. Only Pontius has a coveted grace that he has never possessed.

For the first time since that morning, Lumen looks— pleased. Happy, even. Cicero tries to ignore that little flicker of jealousy crawling up his spine. Perhaps the pain in his shoulder is making him extra irritable. There’s no reason to feel jealous just because his ex-lover is introducing himself to his current one.

“What was that magic you used on me?” he asks, and Lumen’s smile instantly vanishes. “You threw me across the room with a single breath.”

“Prove your innocence, and perhaps you’ll find out.”

He’ll learn more than that if he is proven trustworthy. Cicero wonders how he’ll react to the news of a new Listener. He’ll be pleased, certainly. Pontius was always a traditionalist. But what will he make of Lumen? She and Alisanne Dupre are as different as night and day. Alisanne was stern and quiet, but she had a calm, collected poise about her that demanded loyalty. Lumen, though— she possesses a wild things heedless grace. She cannot be tamed or broken, and her strength calls others to her side.

“Then let us depart, sister,” he says, giving her that lover’s smile Cicero had seen him give to _all_ their sisters back in Cheydinhal. He never lacked for company thanks to that smile. “More hunters could arrive at any moment.”

“They could, couldn’t they?” She looks to Arnbjorn, but eventually settles on asking Cicero. “Is there a way to change the passphrase? I don’t want this place disturbed.”

“Cicero does not know,” he admits, unable to meet her gaze. "He does not even know if it's possible to change the passphrase. They were set centuries ago.”

She heaves a sigh. “So much for that idea.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Arnbjorn says, because she is asking for his benefit— mostly. As if Astrid is deserving of the respect Lumen has already given her. “We should get going.”

Cicero finds himself pinned beneath Lumen's gaze. Her eyes roaming across the sling holding his arm steady. “Perhaps Madanach can spare a healer,” she says in an attempt to broach the distance between them. “I suspect they have more experience than Zaria when it comes to healing such wounds.”

The promise of having his injury mended does improve his mood somewhat. “Then we must not dally,” he says. “Cicero would like to have the use of both arms if we are to face any more of those assassins.”

Arnbjorn turns to Pontius. “You go first. I want you where I can see you at all times.”

He levels Arnbjorn with a glare, but the smile quirking his lips softens it somewhat. “I’m not going to stab you in the back, brother, but— if you insist.”

“I do insist,” the Nord says, his tone betraying nothing. How he feels about Pontius’ return is anyone’s guess, but it’s clear he’s not ready to trust him yet.

In truth, Cicero doesn’t know how he feels about his long-lost brother’s miraculous return. He’s keeping him at arm’s length, allowing Lumen and Arnbjorn to converse with him, even though Cicero has a million questions he’s dying to ask. It’s best to remain distant for now. No reason to get attached all over again if they’re just going to have to kill him in a day or two.

* * *

It takes some effort to mount Shadowmere without causing further injury to his shoulder. But Arnbjorn helps Cicero onto the saddle without complaint. He is being uncharacteristically kind to poor, wounded Cicero. There is no way to know how he feels about the events of the day, and Cicero doubts he would share his feelings if asked. So he doesn't bother.

Arnbjorn steps away to speak with Pontius, and Cicero looks to Lumen, who is checking Shadowmere’s harness. “Where is Lucien?” he whispers, not wishing to be overheard. “Cicero did not see him when we came out of the Sanctuary.”

“Invisible,” she says. “I asked Lucien to stay hidden until Pontius can prove himself to us. He may notice something we do not.”

He swallows some of his anger before saying, “you may ride with Cicero if you wish. I do not expect you to walk all the way to the Reach.”

Her eyes flick to where Pontius is, and she whispers. “It’s safer if I walk.” Then, she gently squeezes his hand and smiles at him for the first time since that morning. “Thank you, though.”

Cicero wishes they had a moment alone to talk because the warmth of her hand in his is making his heart race. He misses her— her touch, her laughter, and even her ire. But when he thinks back to the events of the morning he is angry all over again. He’s not ready to forgive her, but he still loves her. His younger self would laugh at him over the predicament he’s gotten himself into. This is _exactly_ why assassins do not get involved. It’s complicated, painful, and so very distracting. Vetting Pontius and killing those hunters should be the only thoughts in his head.

“Is that Shadowmere?” Pontius gasps. “We only ever heard stories about the horse— that it belonged to the legendary Lucien Lachance, but then it vanished shortly after he died. Only, I thought the horse was a girl?” He takes a long look at the horse and says, “and that horse is definitely male.”

Shadowmere snorts indignantly, and Cicero cannot help but laugh.

“He came to Astrid shortly after the Sanctuaries fell,” Arnbjorn supplies. “Festus had a theory that Shadowmere takes different forms to best accommodate his rider and their terrain, but no one knows the horse’s history. I suppose Shadowmere knows, but he’s not talking.”

The horse shakes his head, as he so often does when he’s the subject of discussion, but his gait is steady. He is aware enough to know his rider is injured, and to walk softly. There is little in the way of conversation as they make their way through the forest. The pines throw hungry shadows across their path, setting the assassins on edge. Anything could be lurking in the darkness. The constant need to be alert is starting to weigh on them all. It is strange for the hunters to become the hunted, but they have all experienced this chase is one way or another. Arnbjorn has had to elude hunters in his wolf form before, and Lumen has been running from the Thalmor for years. But only Cicero knows what it feels like to have his family targeted. He does not think he could survive the fall of yet another Sanctuary, nor could he endure the loss of _this_ Listener. Frustrating though she may be, losing her would shatter him.

A cool, gray morning is dawning when they reach Karthspire. Cicero’s head is pounding with the need to sleep, but the assassins didn’t feel safe setting up camp on the road, and so they pressed on.

Karthspire seems more like a small city than a camp with its tall walls and multiple guard towers. The Reach is not quiet, per se. Not with the way the sound carries along the craggy mountains. But the relative peace of the rustling trees and singing birds is drowned out by the murmur of a hundred conversations coming from within the camp. There are two masked Briarheart warriors standing guard at the gates, and Cicero expects them to give Lumen a difficult time, but they open the gates without argument.

A guard shouts from the lookout above the gates. “Ah, my elven beauty! I wondered when you were coming to see me again!”

Lumen sighs as she looks up. “Hello, Faolán.”

“You remembered my name!” he laughs. “Just one moment— I’ll be right down!”

Cicero looks to where Arnbjorn and Pontius stand. The Nord looks as bored as ever, and he seems unfazed from a night of travel and no rest. Pontius looks exhausted, but he is watching the Forsworn with unhidden interest.

Faolán descends the ladder in no time at all, and Cicero can’t help but gawk as he grabs Lumen’s hand and places a kiss to her knuckles. The man must be brave or stupid— or both. The Listener looks as if she might Shout him into the next era, but what he says next stops her mid-breath.

“Madanach has been expecting you,” he says, straightening up and looking around at the group. “You all may come in. Leave the horse near the gates, if you don’t mind. He makes our goats uneasy.”

“He’s been expecting us? Why?”

Faolán motions for them to follow him inside. “He didn’t say, and we’re not stupid enough to question him. When he tells us to keep a look out for someone, we do it.”

The guard babbles at Lumen while Cicero goes through the troublesome process of dismounting Shadowmere. They follow Faolán through the sprawling camp, and he tells Lumen about the bandits he killed and the dragon he spotted some weeks ago. His crush on the Listener is quite funny, and Cicero would thoroughly enjoy the spectacle were he in a better mood.

The clouds overhead are thick and fluffy with the promise of rain as they make their way to a small riverside beach. Madanach is helping a group of men haul in a large fishing net, filled to bursting with all manner of creatures carried into it by the river's current. His usual guards are there; Uraccen is keeping watch, while Borkul helps with the day’s catch, but they all stop what they are doing when they see Lumen approach.

“Take care of this,” Madanach orders, motioning to the net. His men instantly comply; gathering the net and its contents and moving down the bank. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“So I’ve been told,” Lumen says. "Though I can't imagine why you'd want to see me."

Madanach looks over the group, his ice blue eyes likely seeing more than any of them realize. “Uraccen, have someone see to his injury,” he says, motioning to Cicero. “And find them a place to rest. Lumen and I have a lot to discuss, and there’s a chance this conversation may be a long one.”

Cicero does not like the idea of the Listener running off on her own, but as wounded as he is, he is in no position to defend her— or argue.

“I'll be all right,” she tells them. “Go and rest. I will find you when we are finished.”

He obeys the Listener’s command, even though turning away from her is difficult. He'd rather be by her side, even if they are at odds. Arnbjorn isn't great company as it is, and Cicero is not willing to converse with Pontius until he can trust the man. Whatever Madanach wishes to speak with his Listener about is surely more interesting to listen to than the derisive thoughts that have been eating at him all day.

Uraccen leads them to a small campsite reserved for guests. It is near the forest, and across the river from the main camp. There are two tents erected around a small fire pit. “I’ll have some food sent up,” he tells them. “The healer will come when she is able.”

Cicero takes a seat near the fire pit. His exhaustion eats at him, but he’s reached that point where he is so tired he won’t be able to sleep. As much as he would like to lay down, he does not look forward to battling a bout of insomnia just yet.

“Cicero is not tired, and he is willing to take the first watch,” he says as Arnbjorn assembles the logs within the fire pit. The Nord is silent as he strikes steel and flint, the sparks igniting the dry wood.

Nearby, Pontius takes up a seat a respectable distance away from them. He knows the protocol for dealing with an unknown; they must keep their distance, and patiently wait for their brothers and sisters to prove their innocence. A hint of resentment or a whiff of defensiveness is enough to get one killed in such a situation.

“Are you sure?” Arnbjorn asks. “Lumen will want you to rest.”

“Cicero is resting,” he says, holding his hands closer to the fire. “But he will not be able to sleep until she has returned.”

Understanding lights in Arnbjorn's eyes, and a nod is his only response. He quickly ducks inside his tent, and after a few moments, a soft snoring comes from within. Cicero envies Arnbjorn for that— the ability to fall asleep once his head hits the pillow. It takes Cicero hours just to quiet his thoughts enough to relax, let alone sleep. He knows the Nord has some difficulty sleeping due to his condition, but apparently, those issues are not plaguing him today.

An hour drifts by, and the healer comes to tend to Cicero. She hisses through her teeth when she sees the state of his shoulder, but the wound is not infected, which seems to lessen her scorn. She mends the torn skin and muscle, but the wound will pain him for some time as the nerves will have to heal on their own. The healer takes her leave, and a guard brings their supper. Cicero and Pontius eat in silence, dining on a meal of chicken stew served with bread infused with fragrant herbs. There is still no sign of Lumen. That she and Madanach have been talking for hours does not bode well for the people of Skyrim. People usually die when those two put their heads together.

“I realize in situations such as these, we are not supposed to talk,” Pontius says, his accent rich and rolling. “But I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you—”

“You know the rules,” Cicero says quickly, cutting him off.

“I have been counting the seconds since we last met.”

His breath leaves him in a rush. Not _now_. He can’t deal with this now. Not so soon after a fight with Lumen. Not when Pontius could still prove traitor. “Such words will not save you if you do not earn our trust.”

“I know,” he says, staring at some far off point within the forest. “But I wanted to say it. I wanted you to know. Leaving Cheydinhal was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But I had to run. I had to lead them away from you. Your duties kept you locked away, cloistered within the Sanctuary like an old priest. You didn’t know what it was like _out there_. The Thalmor and their agents darkened every corner, and stalked every alleyway. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide— so I just kept running.”

The fire crackles and thunder rumbles in the distance, filling the gaps of silence between Pontius’ thoughts. Cicero knows he should silence him; snap at him, strike him, gag him. But he can’t move. He feels trapped beneath the weight of those words.

“There wasn’t a word about the Brotherhood for _years_. Ten long years of nothing. I just assumed our family was little more than a distant memory. I was half-drunk in a tavern when I overheard some men talking about the death of the emperor, and how the Dark Brotherhood was gaining a foothold in Skyrim. It took me a while, but I finally made it here. I don’t know what I expected to find here, but— Gods, Cicero. I didn’t expect to find you.”

He’ll rip Pontius to shreds if he’s lying just to garner sympathy. After the events of the previous day, Cicero has no more patience for liars. “That’s enough,” he warns. “You know the rules. Prove your innocence, and we may speak about this. But until then—”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” he says, sighing. “Still cold as ever, I see.”

“Cicero is not—” he stops himself. There’s no reason to rise to the bait. It’s true that he was a cold and callous youth, but not to Pontius. Never to Pontius. Even now, he is only firm because the man has yet to earn their trust.

Pontius pushes a curtain of black hair over his shoulder and turns his eyes to Cicero. “Why do you speak like that?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that question. In all these years, no one ever called him out on his strange manner of speech. But Pontius knew him from before. He knew him _before_ he’d been broken by his sorrow. 

“I’m sorry,” Pontius says. “It was cruel of me to ask.”

“It is fine.” He only now realizes that he’s gripping his arms and curling in on himself. The ghosts of Cheydinhal still haunt his thoughts, lurking in every empty room or quiet evening. The Sanctuary was so profoundly lonely; Cicero had no one to talk to but himself. It had been a natural thing to go from “I” to “Cicero.” It made the loneliness just a little more bearable. If Cicero hadn't gone a little crazy, he wouldn't be as sane as he is now. He had to create his own madness just to keep his faith. Otherwise, he would have abandoned the Night Mother after those first six months of torturous solitude.

“No, it’s not,” he says, reaching for him. But he thinks better of it and tucks his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It does not matter,” Cicero hisses through clenched teeth, and Pontius wisely backs off. “None of it matters if you are _lying_ to Cicero.”

No more words pass between them. Pontius stares into the fire and occasionally turns away to scan the verdant horizon for any sign of trouble. He only breaks his silence when Arnbjorn rises to take his watch, and he offers the Nord a kind greeting. Cicero slips into the tent and lays down upon still warm furs, wishing the warmth came from Lumen instead of his brother. He wonders how much of that conversation Arnbjorn overheard. Though no rules were broken, boundaries were pushed. While Cicero trusts Arnbjorn, he'd prefer to keep his past with Pontius a secret. At least for now. Because it is not a conversation he wants to have with Lumen just yet.

* * *

For the first time in recent memory, Lumen is relieved to be in Madanach’s company. Here there is no suspicion about what he wants, and she certainly doesn’t have to worry about his motives. He’s not an unknown— not like Pontius. Whom she hopes turns out to be legit, but she has a nagging fear that he’s hiding something. But what could it be? A little, harmless secret? Or something bigger— like selling out the Dark Brotherhood?

“So,” she begins, trying to sound more confident than she feels. “Mind telling me why you've been expecting me? This doesn't have anything to do with the Blades, does it? Because I'm done with them.”

“No, it has nothing to do with them. Although, I'm sure Delphine would love to interrogate you about the circumstances behind Esbern's recent passing." He motions for her to walk along the riverbank with him.

"Esbern died of old age."

"Of course he did." The humor fades from his voice when he says, "A group of leather-clad thugs have taken up residence in a nearby cave. Do you happen to know anything about that?”

Lumen breathes a laugh. “Actually, that’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“It's considered polite to ask the lord of the land if you can move in, Listener. The Forsworn do not take kindly to squatters."

A few snarky remarks are sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows them in favor of diplomacy. “Those aren’t my assassins.”

“Oh?” He looks at her then, a grin curling his lips. “The Dark Brotherhood has competition now, eh? That’s all well and good, but do me a favor and keep it out of my territory.”

“We’re being hunted," she says, gritting her teeth.

“Again— keep it out of my territory.”

A night of no sleep and the fight with Cicero has left her with a short-temper. “I have no control over where those bastards go or what they do!” she snaps. “Just tell me where they are so I can kill them!”

He clasps his hands behind his back and gazes at the cloud filled sky, then back to her. “Are they the reason your man is wounded?”

“Yes,” she says, kicking a pebble across the rocky shore. “And no. That’s— well, that’s more my fault.”

“How so? Are you the one who attacked him? I wouldn’t blame you for shooting him.”

“These hunters— I lead us into one of their traps,” she says, hating the way her voice wavers when she admits to it. “I should have known better. I’m the Listener. It’s _my job_ to protect my family, and I nearly got them killed!”

Madanach’s grin widens. “Well, what do you know— There’s a heart beneath that spiky armor, after all. You actually care about other people. I had no idea. I may have to sit down for this.”

“Oh, shut up,” she says, but the words have no bite. “Tell me about this cave.”

“It’s called Blind Cliff Cave,” he says, stopping where a small table has been set up on the beach. It’s nothing more than an old, salvaged table and chairs, with a bottle of clear liquid and two small glasses sitting on top of it. “The cave was an old Forsworn hideout that belonged to a rival faction. They no longer exist, courtesy of yours truly. It’s been empty for months, but my guards noticed activity there about a week ago. We assumed it was Brotherhood business. But since it’s not, I guess that means you’ll deal with the interlopers for us, yes?”

Lumen takes a moment to study her surroundings. It’s a beautiful location. Trees surround them on all sides of the river, and in the distance, she can hear a waterfall. “How many are there?”

“Twenty or so,” he says. “But probably more. Quite a lot to handle, but I assume you’ve faced worse odds when you were off fighting dragons.”

“Honestly, I miss the threat of dragons. It was simple. This is— complicated.”

“Complicated!” He snorts a laugh. “Do you know how many decade-long feuds I've had to mediate recently? Do you know how hard it is to get these stubborn clan leaders to agree on anything? It took years of planning, ass kissing, bribery, and a few well-placed threats just to get the Forsworn clans to meet in one place and not have them kill each other. _That’s_ complicated. This? This is easy. You go in, and you wipe the bastards out. Problem solved.”

“Those aren’t the only assassins that are after us! There could be hundreds more!”

“Well, now you have the chance to reduce their numbers.” He settles in a chair and motions for her to do the same. “Sit. Let’s talk business.”

“Oh, here we go,” Lumen sighs. “What do you want, Madanach?”

“Take a seat and you’ll find out.”

Lumen grumbles a few choice insults and does as she’s asked. “What is this place? It’s beautiful here. Light a few candles, and it could be downright romantic.” She cuts a grin in his direction. “You’re not going to propose are you?”

“Do I look like I have a death-wish?” he asks, laughing softly. “This is just a place I go when I want to get away from the chaos of a crowded camp. Spend half your life trapped in a mine, and you learn to appreciate silence.”

“What do you want from me?” she asks, watching him pour her a glass of that mysterious liquid. 

He pushes the glass to her and pours one for himself. “Twenty or more assassins is a lot to handle, even for a Dragonborn Listener. Your man is wounded, and while I have faith in my healer’s abilities, some wounds cannot be healed in one go. You’re going to need some help, and I am willing to offer it— for a price.”

Lumen stares down at the glass of pure alcohol, weighing the pros and cons of drinking with a mad witchman while sleep-deprived and starving. “What price?”

“I have a guest in need of an escort to Markarth, and I’d like the Dragonborn to take him home.”

“That’s it?” she asks, flabbergasted. “You just want me to take someone to Markarth?”

“Yes,” he says. “That’s it.”

"It can't be that easy. It _never_ is with you." She narrows her eyes at him. “Who is it?”

“Thongvor Silver-Blood,” he says, inordinately pleased with himself. “I believe you met him before.”

“What?” she gasps. “Thongvor’s still alive?”

“He is.” Madanach’s smile turns suddenly malicious when he says, “He’s had a change of heart, so to speak, and he’s agreed to help my people from now on. But to truly help us, he’ll need to return to Markarth.”

How he got Thongvor to change his ways, she doesn’t want to know. But she is suddenly very glad to be on Madanach’s good side. “How will that help? You’ve already got people on the inside.”

“None as important as Thongvor, I assure you.”

“If you are going to use me as a pawn in your plans, then I would at least like to know why.” She folds her arms and stares him down. “Why do you want me— specifically, _the Dragonborn_ , to return him to Markarth?”

“It makes a statement, doesn't it?” His voice nearly drowned out in a rumble of distant thunder, but the rain has yet to fall. “All you have to do is be seen escorting him into the city, Thongvor will take care of the rest.”

“This doesn’t make sense. You wanted him dead so if something happened to Jarl Igmund, the Silver-Bloods — and therefore, the Stormcloaks — wouldn’t gain control of Markarth.” The words come slowly as her mind tries to make sense of this mad plan. “But I suppose that idea got canned when Ulfric gained control of Markarth during the Peace Council—”

“Which was _your fault_ , by the way.”

“How did you sway Thongvor to your cause?”

“Change of heart, as I said.” He grins, but it quickly fades when he says, “You may not know this, but the Empire still has control of Markarth. Igmund refused to give up the throne, and the Thalmor backed his resistance. Ulfric will not take the fight to his doorstep because he would lose the support of the people of Markarth. However, when Thongvor returns, he will be a contender for the throne.”

“A fat lot of good that’s gonna do,” she says, daring a sip of the strong drink. “How will you get Igmund out of the way so Thongvor can take over?”

“That’s where you come in, my murderous friend. I’m going to hire the Dark Brotherhood to kill Jarl Igmund.”

She falls quiet when Uraccen announces his arrival. He places a tray of food on the small table. The tray is laden with bread and cheese, along with two bowls of stew. As his footsteps recede into the distance, she finds her voice again. “I’ll expect gold for this. A lot of it.”

“Of course,” he purrs. “I’ll perform the Sacrament when I am ready. Until then, don’t worry about Igmund.” He runs a finger along the rim of his glass. “So, about our aforementioned deal— I’ll let you borrow some of my best guards in exchange for seeing Thongvor to Markarth. Do you accept?”

She doesn’t need these guards. The Dark Brotherhood can take care of themselves. But after what happened yesterday, she’s not willing to risk the safety of her family safety a second time. “I accept,” she says, though she’d rather not have to waste time by going to Markarth. But if it aids in setting up a future, high-paying contract, she’ll do it.

“Good. I’m glad we could work out a deal.”

There are a million questions crowding her mouth. Why kill Igmund? Why place Thongvor on the throne? “Change of heart” or not, it seems like Madanach is _helping_ Ulfric’s cause rather than hindering it. She would ask, but she knows he’ll continue to avoid her questions. “My brothers and I will appreciate the extra help,” she says. “It’s good to have an ally at a time like this.”

“Isn’t it, though?” He smiles indulgently. “Even better when said ally has an army at his disposal, eh?”

Lumen’s mouth curls into a smile, but it does not meet her eyes. They eat their dinner in silence, save for the rushing of the river and the chirping of insects when the cloudy sky pales with afternoon light. Once their meal concludes, they say their goodbye's and Lumen wanders through Karthspire, taking in the sights before heading to her camp where her brothers wait. Her mind is busy formulating a plan of attack, which is a welcome change from the miserable mood that has plagued her since her fight with Cicero.

The need to kill is an old, familiar friend, and it is preferable to heartache. So she will turn all her pain into rage, and use it against the assassins who hunt them. They have a hard lesson to learn if they think she is easy prey. Lumen is a child of the Void, and she walks in the Dread Lord’s shadow. She is the Night Mother’s daughter, and _no one_ threatens her family and lives. So she will let her desire and longing crash over her, like waves upon the shore, calling to the darkness in her heart. No longer will she give these assassins the courtesy of her fear. To fear them was as grave a mistake as lying to Cicero— and she is not in the habit of repeating her mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to touch on Cicero’s use of illeism (speaking in the third person) but I never got the chance. His friends don’t question it and strangers know better than to ask, but I figured anyone who knew Cicero from before the fall would probably find it a bit strange. I feel like it’s something I’ll circle back to in future chapters. He’s going to start questioning it himself.
> 
> Thongvor has been with the Forsworn for quite some time. Lumen delivered him to Madanach, in oh… chapters 29/30 of Causa Mortis. I left his fate somewhat vague, because I always meant to come back to this particular plot, but there was just no room for me to do it in Causa Mortis.


	7. Order Out of Chaos

The rain clouds move southward as evening falls, bathing the Reach in a milky wash of moonlight. There is not much cover in the Reach; the birch trees are sparse as best, and the gnarled juniper bushes grow low and wide. However, Madanach’s warriors are familiar with the terrain, and they know how to travel without being seen.

Cicero and Arnbjorn are engaged in a quiet conversation as they follow closely behind the warriors. Their voices are too low to hear, but Lumen has a sneaking suspicion that _she_ is the topic of said conversation. Pontius walks along beside her, occasionally cutting a look in her direction. The intensity in his eyes sets her teeth on edge. Men only look at her like that when they mean to kill her or fuck her, and she wonders where his intentions lie— not that it matters. If he tries anything, he’ll die, and when she’s done killing him, she’ll let Arnbjorn and Cicero grind his bones into dust.

She has more important things to worry about, anyway. Firstly, she needs to stop moping over her broken heart, especially when she spent her entire life convincing herself that she never had one. This pain will get her killed if she cannot shove it back into the darkest recesses of her mind.

“So, Lumen,” Pontius begins, his voice pitched low. “How does a Wood Elf end up with an Imperial name?”

Of all the stupid questions— “Why does it matter?”

“I just want to get to know you,” he says. “I know I have yet to earn my place within the Brotherhood, but I hope to. There’s no harm in us talking, is there?”

Though she is determined to hold on to her sour mood and use it to her advantage, she sees little harm in talking to him. It’s not as if he’s asking anything important. “When I was a child, the other kids had a hard time pronouncing my name, so one of them started calling me Lumen. I happened to like it.”

“So that’s not your birth name?”

“No, but it’s close enough. My birth name is far too flouncy and— _elfy_ for my tastes.”

Pontius grins at her. “Oh, now you _have_ to tell me what it is.”

“No,” she says. “It’s stupid.”

“All the more reason to tell me what it is,” he presses on, his green eyes glittering with mischief. “If you don’t tell me what it is, I’ll have to make one up.”

His good humor proves to be somewhat infectious, and so she asks, “What’s in it for me if I do tell you? I can’t give something for nothing.”

“I’ll tell you my first name. It’s atrocious, hence why I go by my family name.”

“Sounds fair,” she says, supposing there’s no harm in gathering information on him. “You go first.”

“It’s Hortensius,” he says, spitting the name out like a vile curse. “Hortensius Pontius— What was my mother thinking?” He clucks his tongue. “It’s a bit longer than that because my parents had to give me a dozen middle names just to honor the family members they wished to curry favor with. But I honestly can’t remember them all.”

“So you come from a noble family, then?”

“Afraid so,” he says, tilting his head to get a better look at her. “Your turn.”

“Lulawen Ringtree,” she says. “Luckily, my mother had little to do with her family. So I didn’t end up with a smattering of names like you Imperial’s do.”

“Oh that is marvelously _elfy_. I love it.”

“It’s better than Hortensius, at least.”

“Cruel thing.” A grin curls his sensuous lips. “For what it’s worth, I think Lumen suits you.”

She smiles in lieu of a response, and they walk together in companionable silence for a while. Eventually, she excuses herself and jogs ahead to speak with the Forsworn warriors. She waves for Cicero and Arnbjorn to follow her when she passes them. Faolán has offered to lead the small group of warriors— five of Madanach’s best. While the young man is rather annoying, Lumen will take help wherever she can get it. He seems capable enough, and there is no sign of his flirtatious side now. That he can be serious at all is a small miracle.

Faolán lifts his hand, a signal for everyone to stop. “We’re nearly there,” he says, guessing what she’s come to ask. “We won’t have much in the way of cover, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“How close are we?”

“It’s just over the bridge,” he says, pointing to some far off point that lays on the other side of a cobblestone bridge. “The entrance is often unguarded. So getting in will be easy.”

“What can we expect?” Arnbjorn asks. “Aside from traps.”

“Considering this is an old Forsworn hideout, I think the traps are a given. It’s hard to say if the assassins are making use of them, but it might be best to let me and my men go in first. We know where the traps and the pitfalls are.”

“This is our fight,” she says, not wishing to engage in a pissing contest with the young man. But really— there’s no reason for the Forsworn to put themselves in danger for the Dark Brotherhood, and she’ll not be beholden to some youth who has a crush on her.

“True, and we will be glad to let you fight it,” he says, grinning at her irritation. “But there is no harm in allowing us to be of use. You won’t be able to make good on your end of the bargain if you die, and Madanach will be pissed.”

Arnbjorn gently nudges her. “I have no real desire to get caught up in any of the old traps, so if they want to lead, we should let them.”

“I am not concerned with who leads,” Cicero says, rolling his newly healed shoulder.

“Very well, the Forsworn will lead,” she says, nodding to Faolán, who runs off to give the orders to his fellow warriors. Lumen glances at Cicero, and though she hates how awkward a simple conversation feels when they are at odds, she wants to make sure he’s okay. If he isn’t well enough to fight, it will turn into a giant argument. But she’d rather him be angry with her than dead. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Stiff,” he says, his tone betraying nothing of how he feels. “But Cicero will be careful. He has fought in worse conditions.”

“Arnbjorn, would you mind relaying the plan to Pontius? I’d like a moment to speak with Cicero alone.” The Nord doesn’t need to be told twice, and he is eager to put as much space between himself and the quarreling lovers as he can. When Lumen feels they have a sufficient amount of privacy, she says, “I just don’t want you to get hurt again. Are you certain you are well enough to fight?”

“Cicero is not walking blindly into a trap,” he snaps. “His odds are better this time.”

Ah. He’s still angry. Good to know. “Cicero,” she sighs, not even knowing where to begin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for lying. I’m sorry for— for everything. What I did was stupid, and I know that you may never forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it. But I want you to know— that whenever you’re ready, or if you never are, my heart belongs to you.”

Her words seem to mollify him somewhat, and the scowl eases from his face. “A lack of love is not our problem, sweet Lumen.” He brushes some hair away from her face, his fingertips gently grazing along her cheek as he tucks the hair behind her ear.

“Then tell me how to fix this,” she whispers, hating how pathetic she sounds. But as much as she’d like to guard her heart, Cicero can always break through her defenses.

Cicero’s hand drops to his side. “Cicero does not know what to tell you. He understands why you kept the truth from him, and he even understands why deception is the first tool you reach for. You had to tell lie after lie just to survive your life with Malrian. But Cicero is not Malrian, and he would never strike you or hurt you for being honest. He may not always like the truth, but he would prefer it.”

Tears sting her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. “I won’t do it again.”

“Cicero wants to believe you,” he says, looking utterly miserable. “I want to forgive you, but—” His words falter, and he heaves a frustrated sigh. “If not for Arnbjorn and Lucien, we would have died. The Dark Brotherhood would have been left without a Listener _and_ a Keeper.”

The gravity of her mistake is not lost on her, but what does he expect her to do? Wallow in it? “I know,” she says, swallowing around a lump in her throat. “But we survived, and I won’t let anything like that happen again. I swear.”

“I believe you.” Cicero grasps her hand and gives it a squeeze before letting go. “But I need more time.”

“All right,” she says, swallowing her tears and refusing to acknowledge the crushing sensation in her chest. “Take all the time you need.”

There are so many things she wants to say, but the words get caught in her throat. What pains her the most is knowing this was preventable. If she’d only told him— oh, it doesn’t matter now. There’s no reason to mull over what could or should have happened. All she can do is move forward. If he needs time, she’ll give it. 

In the meantime, she’ll carve out the eyes of her enemies with the shards of her broken heart.

* * *

The clamor of battle rings out across the mossy walls of Blind Cliff Cave. True to their nature, the Forsworn warriors are fierce fighters, and they revel in bloodshed. Their fighting style is not terribly different from that of the Dark Brotherhood assassins, but where the assassins reach for the shadows, the Forsworn reach for magic. But they wield their magic in a way Lumen has never seen before. It is fluid. Natural. One warrior sends a bolt of fire straight down the throat of an attacking assassin, burning him from the inside out, and another creates an ice storm so intense it freezes the blood in her victim’s veins.

Her siblings are just as impressive. Arnbjorn left his battleaxe behind, preferring not to use something so large in a small space. With a sword in each hand, he cuts down the Thalmor assassins as if they are callow youths, and not trained killers. Pontius has proven to be a skilled fighter as well, using a sword in one hand and a fire spell lit in the other, he blinds his attackers with a plume of flame before cutting them down. Cicero’s shoulder does not appear to hold him back, and there is no mirth in his eyes when he gouges his dagger into the gut of a hunter. He pushes it into the hilt and then rips it upwards, effectively disemboweling the assassin.

The Thalmor assassins are hardly a threat when she has a party of Forsworn warriors and her brothers practically baying for their blood. She’s killed five so far, but she’s working her way up to six. The one she’s pursuing darts off down a long, winding tunnel that leads deeper into the earth. He could be leading her into a trap, but he could be trying to make his escape as well, and she cannot let that happen. So she chases after him, intent on skinning him alive just for putting her through this trouble.

Lumen rounds a corner and skids to a stop. She finds herself in a small, rounded chamber, lit only by the light of low-burning torches. There are two exits; the one she just came through, and a smaller passage just on the other side of the room. An unmasked assassin blocks the far door. Her armor is different from the one who lured Lumen into the room. Where his is a plain, black leather, hers is fortified with glimmering obsidian plates. But they are both devoid of any sigils or heraldry that could be used to identify them.

The Altmer — quite obviously the leader of this den of killers — primly lifts her hand, and says, “go ahead, pet.”

Her _pet_ removes his mask. The Bosmer’s face is decorated in a design of raised scars, and his eyes are as black as pitch. When he sees her, his lips pull back in a grim facsimile of a smile. This will not be an easy fight. This female probably raised him, and he will defend her to the death.

But a lifetime of manipulation and training does not prepare him for Lumen. _”Wuld Nah Kest,”_ comes out in the softest of whispers, and the Bosmer’s eyes go wide when she appears in front of him. She strikes out with her Daedric dagger, slicing the front of his leather armor. He snarls a curse and lashes out with his blade, and the fight begins in earnest. This assassin is no lackey. He’s received years of specialized training under his mistress’ care, and he fights like it.

They are a whirlwind of black leather and steel. Twisting around the room, using the walls to propel themselves, so their attacks hit harder. But Lumen can sense the Bosmer is holding back. He’s not putting his all into this fight. He’s trying to wear her down. If their goal is to tire her out and not kill her, it can only mean one thing— they mean to take her alive.

She’d draw her blade across her throat before letting anything like that happen. So she hits the Bosmer where he is the weakest. The Fire Breath Shout rips from her throat with such ferocity, the entire cave trembles beneath its might, and his Altmer mistress screams when the dragonfire engulfs her. He loses his focus for a heartbeat, and Lumen plunges her dagger through the weak spot in is armor, driving her blade into his abdomen.

He stumbles back, clutching at the weeping wound. The fire clears to reveal his mistress on her knees, her armor charred and her flesh burned. A healing spell rings out, but there is little it can do for the blistered flesh Lumen’s fire left in its wake.

“You little bitch,” the Altmer hisses.

Lumen smirks at the Altmer’s anger. “That’s rude,” she says, refusing to give the woman the satisfaction of her ire. “But it doesn’t matter what you call me because you’re dead and I’m not.”

She twists her body, flinging a throwing knife at the Bosmer, hitting him in the throat and dropping him to the ground. His mistress screams and calls for ice, but she is too slow. Lumen punches her dagger through her eye, and into the skull behind it. The blade scrapes loudly across the bone, bringing out a slurry of blood and soft tissue as she yanks it free. The Altmer drops to the ground, her last breath escaping her lungs in a wet gurgle.

A boot scrapes behind her, the sound sending a jolt of adrenaline through her body. She whirls around to face her new foe, but she is slowed by fatigue. A hand fists in her hair and slams her head against the hard, stone wall. Stars flash in her vision, and she can feel her legs crumple beneath her as she falls to the floor. Her daggers clatter to the ground, and her attacker kicks them away. She wants to stand up— to get to her feet and _fight_ , but her body does not heed her commands.

She does not wish to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream, but she is unable to bite back the howl of pain that rips from her throat when fingers tangle in her hair and twist it around a fist. He yanks her upright, and her stomach gives a lurch at the sudden change in position. Blood trickles through her hair and down her face, and her head throbs in time with the beating of her heart.

“You sing beautifully.” Her attacker drags a finger through the blood, tracing a line of crimson across her cheek. “I wonder what else I’d have to do to get more of those lovely noises out of you.”

Fear skitters down her spine, but she refuses to let it show. Typical thug. He’s not the first brute to attempt to take advantage of a moment alone with a helpless woman. So let him think she’s complicit, he’ll not notice her fingers slowly making their way to her boot, searching for the dagger hidden within.

“Please. Don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want.” She couldn’t sound more fake, but the assassin doesn’t notice.

“Such a gentle, little killer.” He laughs. “You must be her, then. Lumen. You fit the description. You’re something of a legend among us. We’ve all heard the story about the Bosmer who drove a Justiciar to madness. So you can’t blame me if I’m curious to see if Malrian’s bitch was worth the trouble.”

Lumen surges to her feet, thrusting the dagger upwards and into the bottom of his jaw. He stumbles backward, a handful of her hair going with him. She falls back down to her knees, her head throbbing, and she watches the masked man blindly grasp at his last moments of consciousness before succumbing to his wounds.

_”Malrian’s bitch.”_ Those awful words reverberate through her skull, fanning the flames of her steadily burning rage. _“Good,”_ she tells herself. _“Let them underestimate me. Let them see me as Malrian’s plaything and nothing more. They’ll find this bitch has some bite.”_

She gingerly prods at her head, finding a sizable lump beneath her blood-matted hair. Her inability to regain her balance tells her the wound is serious, and will only become worse. A healing potion is enough to slow the swelling, but she’ll need a skilled healer to see to it. She slowly gets to her feet, careful not to send herself completely off-balance with any sudden movements, and makes her way to the main cavern.

* * *

Lumen cannot say what she expects to happen when she makes her way back to the group. There is a part of her that hopes Cicero might catch sight of her blood caking her face and fawn over her for a little bit. But she thinks it might take more than a concussion to bring him back to her side. What she does find is half the Forsworn contingent looting corpses, and Cicero wrapping a bandage around Pontius’ forearm. The wound looks bad, from what she can tell. Blood seeps through the bandage, and his ring and pinky fingers hang limp. She only knows of one person who has the skill to heal severed tendons, but unfortunately, Luka is back home in Dawnstar.

“What happened?” she asks, stepping up to the group.

“Someone tried to block a sword with their arm,” Cicero answers, glancing up at her. He does a double take and surges to his feet. “What happened to _you_?” he shrieks, forgetting about Pontius and stomping over to her. “Cicero loses sight of you for five minutes, and you come back covered in blood!”

“My head became intimately familiar with the cave wall,” she says, hissing when his fingers drift too close to the swollen knot on her head. “You can’t help me by poking at it. I need a healer.”

“We’re nearly finished here,” Arnbjorn tells her. “Some of the Forsworn have spread out to the towers to see if any more Thalmor assassins are lurking around, but I think we got them all.”

“Good,” she says, gently pushing Cicero’s prodding hands away. “Did we learn anything useful?”

“Not a damn thing.” He falls quiet when a grumbling Cicero wanders back to Pontius’ side and helps him to his feet. Arnbjorn’s voice is low when he says, “You ought to know, Pontius leapt in front of Cicero and took that hit for him. He likely saved his life.”

“Is this your way of telling me you trust him?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says. “But he killed at least ten assassins, took that hit for Cicero, and fought with the ferocity of a man with a chip on his shoulder. I tend to know when people are lying— liars have a particular scent. But him? I could smell his rage, and then his fear when Cicero was cornered.”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “If you can sniff out liars, why didn’t you call me out when we were on our way to Helgen?”

“It’s harder with you,” he admits.

“So what are you trying to tell me?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I’m just relaying what I saw. Figured you’d want to know. The decision to bring him into the family lies with you. I’m just trying to make it a little easier for you.”

“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t trying to be an ass—”

“Some things can’t be helped.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Come with me. I think I have something that’ll help with that knot on your head.”

Arnbjorn’s hand brushes against hers as he steps away, and she takes one last look at Cicero and Pontius before leaving. The Keeper is plying him with healing potions, and not looking her way. Not that she expects him to. He will likely blame himself for what happened, and the guilt will plague him for quite some time. She wonders if Pontius knew this, and injured himself as a result.

She follows Arnbjorn outside, glad to be beneath an endless sky, rather than tons of stone. The night sky has begun to pale as the light of a new day crests along the horizon. Eager birds welcome the day with their song, and the crickets grow quiet as they retreat into their burrows.

“Sit down,” Arnbjorn orders, as he searches through his traveling pack.

“Yes, sir,” she grumbles, taking a seat on a moss-covered rock. “But why drag me outside for this? Not that I’m complaining. Just curious.”

“You looked like you needed some fresh air.” He hands her a poultice; a mixture of herbs wrapped in cheesecloth. It glitters with a light frost enchantment, placed there by Luka. “This should help. You'll need to see a healer when we return to Karthspire, though.”

Lumen gingerly places the poultice against the bump on her head, hissing at the contact. “I don’t know what to do about Pontius,” she says without preamble. “He seems sincere, but I’ve been fooled in the past.”

“He killed those assassins without a second thought. He didn’t hesitate, and he made their deaths painful. I approve of his technique if nothing else.” Arnbjorn’s expression gives nothing away, but there is something in the way his jaw tightens that sets Lumen on edge. “Trust him as much as you would trust any killer.”

She snorts. “I trust you, and you’re a killer.”

He smiles at that, though it fades as quickly as it came. “Pontius ran from the Brotherhood once. Though he claims it was to protect Cicero, we can’t know that for certain. He’s guilty of being a coward, but is he a traitor? I can’t say.”

“I don’t trust my instincts anymore," she says, her voice wavering. "That disaster in Helgen is going to haunt me until the day I die. I wasn’t trying to mislead anyone! I genuinely thought something was wrong with the Night Mother, or— or maybe the Sacrament wasn’t done right! I didn’t know—” she grits her teeth, fighting against a sudden swell of emotions. Her head is pounding, and her stomach has twisted itself into knots. She wants to cry and scream and rage. How could everything have turned out _so wrong_?

He rests his hand on her shoulder and slides it around to her back. “We all survived. You won’t get anywhere by raking yourself over the coals.” He takes a breath, his werewolf senses telling him more than she’d like. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid to make a decision because I’m scared of being wrong!” Lumen rests her hands in her lap, unable to withstand the sting of the poultice any longer. “If not for you and Lucien, we would have died in Helgen! It would have been my fault!”

“It’s okay to be afraid when your family is in danger,” he murmurs. “But don’t let it consume you.”

“I’ve never had anything to lose before. I’ve never had _so much_ to lose. And I think what scares me the most is that I would die for you— for all of you. I would _die_ if it meant keeping you all safe.”

“I know,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “I knew that when you vowed to face Alduin on your own. That’s what changed everything for me. I saw _you_ — truly saw you for the first time, then. I think that’s when I understood why the Night Mother chose you. She chose a Listener who would protect the Dark Brotherhood at all costs.” He falls quiet, considering his next words. “If Alisanne Dupre possessed an ounce of your strength, the Cyrodiil sanctuaries would not have fallen.”

“Oh.” She swallows hard. Of all the things she expected him to say, _that_ was not it.

“If— if Astrid had loved us as fiercely as you do, Festus, Gabriella, Veezara— they’d still be with us. Falkreath wouldn’t be a mass grave.”

It is a monumental effort to fight back the desire to cry. But Lumen refuses to give into it. Not now. Not when Arnbjorn is laying himself bare. Never before have they discussed Astrid or Falkreath. It’s not a forbidden subject, but it was something he was never ready to talk about— until now.

He sits down beside her, their arms touching. “I know I’ve been distant lately, and it’s not because I don’t want to be around you. I do. I just needed to work through some things. I needed to grieve my wife properly. I hate what she did, but I can’t hate her for it.”

Lumen’s hand curls around his. “I know.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve been explicitly monogamous throughout my life, but I was after we married. So this— what we have. It’s new. It’s not bad. Just— different, and it’s taken some getting used to. Some part of me still expects Cicero to fly into a rage every time I look at you.”

“He trusts you,” she mutters. “And he knows better than to ask for exclusivity, and I don’t think he values it. But trust— trust is what he values above all other things.”

“And he never gets jealous?” Arnbjorn asks. “Or you? Do you get jealous when he’s with Luka?”

“We have our moments of jealousy. It’s only natural. But jealousy can be reasoned with. I know that Cicero will return to my side eventually, just as he knows I will return to his. But I feel it’s important for you to know that you always have a place beside me. Always. Because I never want you to feel less important, or pushed aside.”

He brushes his lips across her forehead. “Thanks, tidbit,” he says, some strength returning to his voice. “I’ll do my best to keep my own jealousy on a leash.”

Lumen smiles, her earlier sorrow banished. Yet, her worries persist. “Now that we’ve got our gross feelings out of the way,” she says, huffing a laugh when Arnbjorn playfully prods her in the side. “I could use some advice.”

“Kill Pontius, or bring him home. I will stand by you, regardless of your choice.” The crunching of boots signals the arrival of the others, and Arnbjorn’s voice drops to a whisper when he says, “Your relationship with the Keeper is none of my business. However, I’d suggest speaking to him before making a decision. He’ll appreciate it.”

“Thank you,” she says, watching as he pushes away from the rock to speak with Pontius. That Arnbjorn is willing to endure small talk with a stranger speaks volumes, and Lumen will have to remember to thank him later.

It takes some time, but eventually, they are all on the road again. The Forsworn are at the head of the group, with Arnbjorn and Pontius following close behind. Lumen tugs on Cicero’s sleeve, and he slows down. Despite the distance between them, he knows her well enough to know when she needs to talk.

“Arnbjorn told me Pontius took that hit for you.”

“The damn fool,” Cicero mutters, his voice carrying more venom than she expects. “It was a stupid risk. Cicero could have parried the sword quite easily. He nearly got his arm chopped off!”

A grin tugs at her lips. “And he fought well? Aside from nearly losing an arm?”

“Quite well,” he says, calming a little. “And so did you, although poor Cicero did not get to see it. I found the three assassins you killed when you _foolishly_ ran off on your own.” He frowns at her, torn between berating her for running off or praising her for her work.

“So you think Pontius is a fool and I’m a fool, and yet, you’re the one with a jester motley.”

“Quiet,” he says, a wry smile twisting his lips.

“Do you think we can trust him?”

A heavy silence follows in the wake of that question. “I want to believe him,” Cicero says. “I keep trying to remember if Pontius ever did anything strange in the past if there was ever a moment where I suspected him of betrayal. But there’s nothing that I can think of.”

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek, considering her next question. “Did you ever trust Astrid?”

Cicero breathes a humorless laugh. “Cicero thought Astrid was power-hungry and wished to be rid of him and the Night Mother. But did he think she would sell us out? Absolutely not. We were all blindsided by that.”

“I don't want to risk the safety of our Sanctuary on an unknown,” she admits. “But I have Lucien watching Pontius, and I think the Night Mother might speak if she suspects something is off with him. She’s been helpful in the past. When Falkreath was burning, she called me to her. She saved my life.”

He stops in his tracks. “You never told Cicero that.”

Lumen bites her lip, fearing this will be fodder for yet another argument. “Sorry?” Her so-called apology comes out with more force than she means, but she’s on edge. She is _tired_ of fighting.

“Sweet Lumen is brilliant,” he says quickly. “Cicero thought it was her own idea.”

“I don’t mean to be defensive, it’s just—” She twirls her hand in the air, looking for the right words. But she decides blunt honesty is what’s needed, now more than ever. “This shit between us is beginning to weigh on me. I’m second-guessing everything I say. I know you need time, and I’m willing to give it, but damn it, I _miss_ you. I miss the touch of your skin and the sound of your laugh. I miss your stupid jokes. But most of all, I miss our friendship. I feel lost without you.”

“Cicero is lost without you as well,” he says, his words coming out in a rush. “He is still hurt, but he will heal. He thinks— _I think_ I will heal faster if I have you by my side.”

There is a moment of indecision. One where they just stand and stare at each other, like a couple of awkward teenagers. But then he steps forward and wraps his arms around her, nuzzling into her neck. Lumen’s arms encircle him, and she buries her nose in his hair, breathing him in. She _revels_ in his touch after being without it for so long. It’s a small step, but it’s a step in the right direction. They reluctantly part, but Lumen loops her arm around his, and he playfully bumps into her as they walk side-by-side.

“I could use some advice in regards to Pontius,” she says. “If you have any.”

“He will have to earn our trust. If you invite him home, then we will keep an eye on him. If you decide to kill him—” He takes a deep breath. “Cicero will accept it.”

There is little else to discuss after that, and so their conversation turns to safer things. There is no mention of Helgen or Pontius. Instead, they wonder what Madanach has planned for Thongvor, and when they have tired of that subject, they fall into a comfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter proved to be quite difficult to write. I’ve been sick, and trying to write while sick is insanely difficult for me, so I apologize if there are any unforgivable grammar mistakes or misspellings that I didn’t catch. I actually think this was doubly hard because there’s a fight scene… which I struggle with. 
> 
> And then, there are a lot of feelings being discussed in this chapter. The scene with Arnbjorn just kinda went off in it’s own direction, but I felt like it was an important step in his relationship with Lumen. I have no personal experience with poly relationships, so I can only go with my instincts on how one would be navigated. But I feel like jealousy and confusion would crop up on occasion and need to be dealt with.


	8. House of Horrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Canon typical violence and smut (femdom, mild BDSM elements, pain kink, restraints. etc.)

_Cicero’s new siblings loved to talk about the glory days of the Dark Brotherhood, even though those days were centuries gone, and they always ended in death. They were “the glory days” until everyone died horribly, and for assassins, dying horribly was simply a matter of when— not if._

_He hated those stories. They made him remember a time when he was a young assassin, so naive to the dangers such a life entailed until he had to endure the pain of losing his home and heart. He can still hear the cries of his siblings as they burned to death when Bruma’s Sanctuary fell. He’ll never forget the brothers and sisters he so desperately tried to save, but their Sanctuary was underground, and the fire had weakened the support beams. There was little he could do when the roof came down and buried them all alive. Sometimes, he thinks he should've died with them. He hated himself for running._

_It felt like the world was closing in. Bruma was gone. Wayrest had fallen. Chaos had erupted in Bravil. Garnag and Adronica left to aid the Listener in guarding the Night Mother’s crypt. Cicero had begged to go, as he couldn’t bear to sit idle. But Rasha ordered him to stay._

_Cicero spent the last week pacing up and down the corridors of the Sanctuary. He was full of nervous energy and he couldn’t sit still. At least Rasha took notice and gave him a contract to keep his hands busy. It would provide a much-needed distraction while keeping him close to home. But killing a local silk merchant was work for a lowly initiate. This contract was a waste of Cicero’s skills._

_Waste or not, the contract was an easy one and the bonus was as good as his. He killed the merchant in her sleep, ruining an expensive goose feather bed. The merchant’s blood unfurled across silk sheets like crimson wings, her eyes wide and unseeing. It was one of his more lovely kills._

_As beautiful as it was, he could not linger. He would leave as swiftly and as silently as he came; through the window, across the rooftops, and once he dropped to the ground, he’d weave through the back alleys until he made his way back to the abandoned house that hid their Sanctuary from view._

_Cicero was halfway through the window when something stopped him. Every hair on the nape of his neck stood up as he felt the sensation of eyes upon him. He looked over his shoulder to see the young daughter of the silk merchant peering through the open door. The girl was young— no older than four, and much too young to understand what she was seeing. His hand drifted to his dagger all the same. He could leave no witnesses._

_But as he drew closer to the child, he let his dagger slide back into its sheath. Because this pale, slip of a girl reminded him of **her**. Cicero remembered very little of his life before the Brotherhood, but he’d had a sister, and oh, how he loved her. He’d long forgotten the contours of her face, and when he thought of her, he could only see a flash of red hair and unruly curls. But this little girl spoke to a part of his soul he thought he snuffed out a long time ago._

_The child looked to him, then to the bed, but she couldn’t see the bloody heap on top of it. “Mommy?”_

_He put his finger up to his lips. “Mommy is sleeping,” he said. “Go back to bed.”_

_“Are you one of mommy’s friends?”_

_Ah. The silk merchant had a habit of breaking hearts, and a jilted lover with a chip on his shoulder is why Cicero was there on that particular night. The little girl was not unaccustomed to finding strangers in her home. That made his life easier, at least. If she had screamed, the guards would’ve come running._

_“I am, and she is sleeping. You should sleep, too.”_

_The little girl shook her head, her red curls bouncing with the movement. Cicero inwardly groaned. His bonus was forfeit whether he killed the child or left her alive. He should kill her. He really should. Dark Brotherhood assassins did not leave any witnesses. It should not even be a subject of debate. But the girl’s next words made up his mind for him, and his fate was sealed._

_“Can’t,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. “Too scared.”_

_It was terrifying how easily this kindness came to him. “Of what, child?”_

_“The dark.” After a moment spent fidgeting with her nightdress, she added, “The wind blew my candle out.”_

_“I can light it,” he said, not knowing why. “Would you go back to bed then?”_

_She nodded her head, more frantically this time, and took off down the hallway. Cicero followed her, half in a daze as memories from his past came flooding back to him. None of the memories were pleasant. His childhood was a chronicle of hunger and desperation, and the only shining light amidst the darkness of those memories was his beloved sister. But even thoughts of her lead to heartache, because the world is a cruel place, and she was taken from him all too soon._

_This moment of mercy — of weakness — would come back to haunt him. He just knew it. But as he stepped into the little girl’s bedroom, he decided to accept whatever punishment the Dread Lord had in mind._

_A window was cracked to let a breeze in, but the winds had picked up over the course of the evening, and subsequently blew out the candle. Cicero shut the window and lit the candle on the dresser using his striker and flint. The action created more noise than he was comfortable with, but there was no one left in the house, save for the assassin and the child._

_A small grunt drew his attention, and he turned to see the child struggling to crawl back into bed. The bed was better suited for an adult, rather than a little girl. But it didn’t matter. She was now an orphan, little did she know, and she would soon be sleeping in a cot in an orphanage. So who was he to deny her one more night spent in a feather bed?_

_Cicero slid his hands beneath her arms and boosted her onto the bed. The little girl giggled at the quick movement. “Thank you,” she said as she scrambled to get under the covers._

_The child’s gratitude was undeserved, and it hit him like a kick to the chest. He was disgusted by his ineptitude. An assassin of his caliber should have no qualms about killing a child. But as Cicero glanced back at the girl, now comfortably snuggled beneath her blankets, he didn’t regret his decision. Everyone within the Brotherhood found their true calling thanks to the needs and urges that lead them down a murderer’s path, but the elders always taught restraint. So he was content to call this an exercise in self-control, rather than a monumental failure._

_Cicero’s heart felt heavy as he crept from the house and back into the streets of Cheydinhal. His homecoming was rather solemn; his brothers and sisters were too concerned with the situation in Bravil to concern themselves with Cicero. All except for Rasha, who gave him an earful for ruining a perfectly easy assignment. Later, he would sit down with a glass of brandy to drown his sorrows, and pen a new journal entry._

_**12th of Sun's Dusk, 4E 188**  
Botched my contract and forfeited the bonus. The silk merchant was already cold, and I was halfway through the window when her daughter stepped into the room. I had little choice at that point._

* * *

Karthspire Camp is pleasantly chaotic when the group returns from Blind Cliff Cave. The Forsworn warriors have new stories to tell, and the healers tend to the four, weary assassins. One such healer reduces the gash on Lumen’s head down to a small, tender lump. But when she informs the Listener that she might have to cut her hair due to all the dried blood, she reacts more violently than any of them expect. The healer leaves in a huff, and there Cicero sits; soaking the clumps with a wet rag and working them out with a comb borrowed from Pontius.

Madanach approaches their campsite, flanked by his usual guards; Borkul and Uraccen. “What’s this I hear about you assaulting my healer?”

Lumen’s gaze snaps up to Madanach, her shoulders curling inward as if she might leap up from where she’s sitting. Cicero clamps a hand on her arm to keep her from doing anything she might regret. Dragonborn-Listener or not, one does not attack the Reach-King on his own turf.

“I didn’t assault her, I _threatened_ to,” she says, rolling the tension from her shoulders. “I’ll stab anyone who tries to cut my hair.”

“It’s hair,” Madanach says, a small grin curling his mouth. “It grows back.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve had blood in my hair, nor will it be the last. Cutting it is unnecessary.”

“Really?” he laughs. “This is the thing you’re sensitive about? Hair?”

Lumen grumbles something vile under her breath. “Don’t you have a goat to sacrifice or a Nord to torment? Surely you have something more important to do than bother me.”

“But I love pestering you; it’s very satisfying.” Madanach doesn't sound angry, but Cicero can tell he’s caught between irritation and amusement. Not an odd thing when one is dealing with the Listener. “I just thought I’d come by and offer some advice. Be kind to my healers. If you keep threatening them, they won’t be so keen to help you the next time you come crawling in here with injuries. And I would be disappointed if you died. The world is far more interesting with people like you in it.”

That does earn him a little smile from Lumen. Her mood is improving, at least. “Don’t worry Madanach. I’m not going to die anytime soon. Certainly not before setting your plans in motion.”

“Speaking of, do you feel well enough to travel? You and your people are welcome to stay as long as you need. Thongvor isn’t going anywhere.”

“I'm all right,” she says quickly. “I plan to leave before noon, so make sure Thongvor is ready.”

“Yes, _mistress_. I’ll get right on that.” He gives her a mocking bow. “Any other commands?”

“None for now. But come back in five minutes, I’ll have thought of something else by then.”

That earns her a laugh, followed by a dismissive wave as Madanach turns to leave. Borkul remains at his side, but Uraccen runs off— presumably to ready the prisoner for travel.

“Cicero hopes you're not planning to go on your own,” he says, his voice carrying a warning that she can't miss. “Thongvor is no threat, but there could be more assassins on the road.”

“I’m not going alone,” she says, hissing when he begins to comb out a particularly stubborn knot. “I was hoping you'd come with me.”

“What about us?” Arnbjorn asks, finally breaking his long silence. The Nord has been unusually quiet, preferring to lose himself in a book, rather than engage in conversation.

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek. “I’d like you and Pontius to travel to Morthal. We’ll meet up there and head home together.”

Pontius perks up, getting to his feet and moving closer to Lumen and Cicero. “Does that mean what I think it means?” he asks, a glimmer of cautious hope in his eyes. “You’ll talk to your superiors about letting me back in the Dark Brotherhood?”

She is quiet for a long moment while Cicero pulls her hair back into a messy bun, careful to mind that tender spot on her scalp. The scent of her hair hits his nose, and he revels in it. She smells of blood and lavender, and like the forest after a spring rain.

“We are the superiors,” she says, getting to her feet. “And I’ve already talked this over with Arnbjorn and Cicero. Our brothers and sisters at home will cast their votes, too. But I have the final say.”

“Are you a Speaker?” Pontius rubs his bandaged arm, his eyes darting between Lumen and Cicero.

“I’m the Listener.”

Cicero’s fear begins to rise. While Pontius proved himself by slaughtering Thalmor assassins and even leaping in front of a sword for his sake, Cicero doesn’t know how his presence will affect life at home. It's possible he’s overthinking things. Yes, they had a fling for a while, but it was ten years ago, and it hardly matters now. He has Lumen and Luka, and there is no room in his heart for another.

“You’re—” Pontius stumbles forward, then drops to his knees. “ _Listener_ ,” the words come out in a rush, spoken with all the reverence of a prayer. “There’s a Listener. A new Listener. I hadn’t dared to hope.”

An expression of horror etches across Lumen's face as she stares down at Pontius. “Get up,” she snaps. “No one bows to me. _Get up_.”

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, slowly rising to his feet. “It’s just— after Alisanne died, I’d lost all hope. I’d lost my faith. But I swear to you, I will never lose another Listener again. These Thalmor assassins will die by my blade, or I’ll die trying. What happened in Cyrodiil will never happen again. My blade, my body, my mind— every weapon I have at my disposal is yours, Listener.”

Cicero doesn’t know who he should pity more; Lumen or Pontius. The Listener doesn’t care for declarations of loyalty because words are cheap and lies come easily. She values actions because actions do not lie. However, the look on her face is hilarious, and it’s all he can do to keep from laughing, because Lumen might kill them all if he does.

“Thanks?” she stammers, fussing with her gloves before stepping around Pontius. “I, uh, I’m gonna go make sure Thongvor is ready. Meet me at the gates in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll go help her,” Arnbjorn says, barely covering his laughter as he follows after her.

“Did I do something wrong?” Pontius asks. “Did I offend her?”

“Ah, do not worry, brother. Our Listener is not used to such displays. That is all.”

“Why not? She’s the Listener!” Pontius glances in the direction Lumen ran, then back to Cicero. His expression turns grim. “Why is she even _here_? Why is she fighting the Thalmor, too? She should be somewhere safe! Instead, here she is, brazenly walking into harm's way!”

“Your complaints mirror my own,” Cicero sighs. “But Lumen will not hide away and allow her brothers and sisters to fight for her, and I would advise against even suggesting it. She will not take it well.”

“I’ll keep my concerns to myself. I’ve no wish to find myself at the end of the Listener's blades.” An uncertain smile appears on his lips. “When was she chosen?”

It’s a valid question. Every Listener leads differently, and a lot of it has to do with when the Night Mother selects them. Dupre was chosen as a young girl, barely over the age of twelve, and the Black Hand saw to her education. While she was trained by the best assassins and could certainly hold her own in a fight, she only dealt with threats to the Brotherhood when she had no other choice. Whereas Lumen puts herself in danger every chance she gets.

“It’s been over a year. Perhaps it might be two years by now. But it was not an occasion marked by celebration. Astrid was not pleased. She felt threatened, and it was her hubris that brought the Penitus Oculatus to our doorstep. She betrayed the Listener, she put her trust in the wrong people, and the Sanctuary fell.”

Pontius holds his bandaged arm to his chest, his body tense, as if he desperately wants to hit something. Cicero cannot blame him. “What about Arnbjorn? Can he be trusted? He was her husband! Surely he knew she was up to something.”

“You’d be amazed at what spouses keep from each other.” Cicero tries to withhold any trace of bitterness from his voice. But the events of the past couple days still weigh on him. He forces his voice into a steady calm when he says, “He did not know, and he has earned my trust.”

“Very well. If you trust Arnbjorn, then so do I.” He smiles wryly. “I’m going to assume this is something I shouldn’t bring up with my traveling companion.”

“Cicero would suggest a different topic of conversation if you wish to keep your head.”

Pontius snorts. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

* * *

The afternoon sun is high above when the assassins go their separate ways. Shadowmere made numerous attempts to bite Thongvor, so the horse went with Arnbjorn and Pontius, leaving Lumen and Cicero to travel on foot. They do not mind, however. The walk from Karthspire to Markarth is a relatively easy one. Despite the uneventful journey, Cicero’s mood sours when they reach the city gates. Markarth is a monument of stone and metal and hate. Of all the cities in Skyrim, he likes Markarth the least. It reminds him of a cage, and he can never stay too long, lest the walls begin to close in on him.

The guards at the front gate don’t notice anything off about Thongvor’s appearance, and they send a runner to the Keep to inform the Jarl of his return. The Jarl might try to convince him to see a healer, which might be disastrous for Madanach’s plans. Thongvor’s skin is pale, and there are deep circles beneath his eyes. One might simply think the man is recovering from starvation, but Cicero knows death with he sees it. Or _undeath_ in this case. Thongvor is a Briarheart, he is certain of it. But he doubts he would find the Briar Heart stitched into his chest if he were to look for it. Madanach is far too clever to leave the evidence of his magic out in the open.

The Nord Briarheart never said a word while they were on the road, but ever since they stepped inside the city, he’s done nothing but shout about his capture being set-up by Jarl Igmund, and how the Dragonborn saved him. It doesn’t take long for the Jarl to hear word of this, and so he’s invited Thongvor and his companions to Understone Keep for a meeting.

“Void take that miserable son of a bitch,” Lumen growls. “Madanach said Thongvor would handle the cover story, but I didn’t think he’d do it at the top of his lungs! Everyone is _looking_ at us. This is horrible!”

“The man does seem to delight in your humiliation,” he says, looping his arm through hers as they follow Thongvor through the city. “You should have seen this coming, though.”

“You’re supposed to comfort me,” she whines.

Cicero tugs her arm, and they skirt around a man dressed in shabby robes. He's a priest of some sort, but he is trying a little _too_ hard to get the Dragonborn’s attention. Perhaps he is begging for alms, or seeking to gather more followers. Whatever the reason, he’ll not be pestering his sweet Lumen today. “Oh, Cicero plans to comfort you,” he says. “Later, perhaps. There is little Cicero can do to soothe you in a bed made of stone.”

Lumen breathes a laugh, but she withholds her response as they enter the keep. It is too dangerous to speak freely, and there are too many eyes upon them— including those of a Thalmor Justiciar and his guards.

A Redguard woman meets them at the top of the stairs. She allows Thongvor to pass into the throne room, but she stops Lumen and Cicero. “The Jarl would like to speak with Thongvor privately. I'm sure you understand.”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Lumen says, shrugging. “I promised I’d bring Thongvor home, and I’ve done that. What happens now is none of my concern.” She cuts a sharp glance to the Thalmor Justiciar lingering nearby and then nudges Cicero. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait!” the guard gasps. “Jarl Igmund does wish to meet you! It’s not every day the Dragonborn comes to visit. It’s just—” she steps closer, her voice dropping low. “Thongvor is throwing around some pretty serious accusations, and the Jarl must deal with him first.”

Cicero can tell Lumen is on the verge of snapping at the poor woman, and he wouldn’t blame her if she did. This situation has them both on edge; there are too many dangers. Angry voices ring out from inside the throne room, a Thalmor Justiciar is watching Lumen with unhidden interest, and the Jarl’s guards are circling them like vultures on the scent of carrion.

“I’m not going to sit around and wait for Thongvor and Igmund to work out their differences,” Lumen says, lifting her chin. “I have other matters to attend to, and I really must be going.” With that, she turns on her heel and marches down the stairs and straight out of the Keep.

Cicero follows close behind her, barely able to contain his laughter. “That was not the most tactful exit, Cicero must admit.”

“I don’t care about tact,” she growls. “I did what Madanach asked me to do. What happens now is up to him.”

“Oh, Cicero is not criticizing. But don’t you want to see how this plays out? You are not just a _little_ curious?”

“No,” she snaps, breezing down another set of stone stairs and into the main street of the city. “I know how much you enjoy politics and intrigue, and the rest of that rabble. But I honestly just want to go home.”

"Yes, yes. Cicero understands," he says, although he is a little disappointed. It's times like this when he misses Cyrodiil and all the shady, underhanded dealings of the local courts.

They near the abandoned house with the priest lingering by the doorway. Despite Lumen’s loud ranting, the man throws himself into her path, causing her to stumble to a stop.

“You again?" she growls. "What in the Void do you want?”

“I need your help! Please! Just hear me out, at least!” The Imperial gazes up at Lumen with pleading eyes, and she sighs, motioning for him to speak. “Thank you,” he says, visibly relieved. “My name is Tyranus, and I’m with the Vigil of Stendarr. I believe this house is being used for Daedra worship. But no one in the city has seen anything. They just look the other way! They don’t care about the house sitting abandoned for decades. They all act like it’s not even here! I believe it’s due to Daedric influence, and I’d hoped you, an outsider, might have seen something of note? Surely you are not bewitched like the people who live here are.”

Cicero studies the house. It looks like every other house in Markarth, and it's hardly noteworthy. Except for the shadow mark near the door, indicating that it’s empty. Cicero once had a friend in the Thieves Guild, and he told him that they would sometimes mark a place as “empty” when they feared the “danger” mark might invite unwanted curiosity from the younger, more foolhardy thieves.

“I don’t come here often,” Lumen says, glancing at the house. “So I haven’t noticed anything. It looks abandoned to me.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to take a look inside,” Cicero says, surprising himself.

“Oh.” Tyranus levels him with a look that tells him he’s already judged Cicero as a simpleton. “I suppose it would help if I had some backup. I’d rather not face any Daedra worshippers on my own."

Lumen levels Cicero with a curious glance, and then she turns back to the priest. “Do you have a key?”

“No, but I have other means of getting inside.” Tyranus turns away from her, digging through his pockets for a set of lockpicks.

“Thank you, sweet Lumen.” He knows she has only agreed to help the Vigilant in order to sate Cicero’s curiosity. If it weren’t for Cicero, they would be well on their way home. But there is something about this house that piques his interest, and he cannot explain why. It just does.

She smiles at him. “I don’t mind taking a detour for _you_. I’m just not going to do it for anyone else.”

“It’s unlocked.” Tyranus stands near the door. His hands clasped tightly in front of him. “I would be remiss if I didn't warn you— If there are any Daedra worshippers inside—”

“Things will get nasty,” Cicero supplies, stepping up to the door. It is brilliantly polished beneath the cobwebs that cover its surface. “We have faced worse than Daedra worshippers. But if you wish to enter first, then by all means.” He motions to the door with a flourish, purposely adding to Tyranus’ unease.

The Vigilant does not know how to respond to that, so he enters the house with Cicero and Lumen following close behind. On the outside, the door is a woven mesh of cobwebs and moss, but inside, there is a notable lack of dust. Despite the fact that the house is not nearly as abandoned as it pretends to be, it looks relatively normal. No evidence of Daedra worship— yet.

“I think there’s something in the basement,” Tyranus says, as he quickly makes his way through the house. “Follow me!”

“Wait a second,” Lumen says, but the man darts down a flight of stairs, and deeper into the house.. She doesn't bother following him, and continues her exploration of the upper room. “Well if any Daedra worshippers are hiding in the basement, I guess Tyranus will be the first to know. Bloody fool.”

The two assassins take their time in exploring the upper level; Lumen flips through a book, looking for notes tucked within the pages, and Cicero peeks inside a cupboard. All seems well, except Cicero could swear he hears the tolling of a distant bell. He doesn’t know when it began— it could have been ringing for a mere second, or half a lifetime, but the sound makes his stomach churn. The only temple within the city is dedicated to Dibella, but they don't use bells to summon their adherents. This sound, however, is coming from somewhere much more distant; infinitely far, yet suddenly _very_ near.

“Do you hear that?” he asks, looking around, desperately trying to discern the source of the noise. “The bell?”

Lumen doesn't look up from her task of rifling through an apothecary's satchel. “Yeah, but isn’t it from the temple?”

“Perhaps,” he says, laughing nervously. “But Cicero has not heard a temple bell since he left Cyrodiil. It is an Imperial custom.”

The gas lanterns in the room dim and brighten of their own accord, and the sudden fluctuation of light does grab Lumen’s attention. “That’s weird. What do you—” her inquiry is cut off by a yelp as a chair flings itself away from a table and skitters across the floor. “Okay, I’m done. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”

They are both willing to face assassins, dragons, and various other untold dangers, but hauntings and Daedric curses were beyond their level of skill, and so Cicero does not need to be told twice to leave this wretched place behind. But when they reach the door, they find it locked.

The distant bell gives a final toll, and the gas lanterns flicker out, swathing them in darkness. They remain silent and still, neither wishing to give in to their fear. After a few heartbeats, light returns to the room, but not through the lanterns. It is coming from the air itself, fitful and dim, like the light of a stillborn sun. The house comes to life all around them; pots and pans dance across a table, books fly off their shelves, and a bowl of fruit — now visibly rotten — spills itself across the floor.

**“Weak. He is weak. You are strong. Crush him.”**

“Please tell Cicero you heard _that_.”

“Uh, yeah.” Lumen nervously wets her lips. “Hopefully the Vigilant will know what to do. Because I certainly don't.”

Tyranus rushes into the room. “Stendarr’s mercy!” he gasps, shoving between them in an attempt to get to the door, crying out in frustration when he finds it locked. “This is no ordinary Daedra! We have to get help!”

The voice rings out again, resonating through their bones like nearby thunder. Cicero can hear the years in that malicious voice, and though he is compelled to follow its orders, he fears what it might come of them.

**“Kill him. Crush his bones. Tear at his flesh. Break his spirit. You will kill, or you will all die.”**

Tyranus stops scrabbling at the door and slowly turns around to face Lumen and Cicero. “Stendarr forgive me,” he gasps, reaching for his mace. “I'm so sorry. Forgive me. There is no other way.”

Lumen hisses a curse, while Cicero draws his ebony blade. The Vigilant of Stendarr is no match for two Dark Brotherhood assassins. Dodging the sloppy swings of his mace proves tricky, but Lumen manages to disarm him while Cicero sinks his blade into his midsection, spilling his bowels across the stone floor.

**“Yes,”** the dark voice laughs. **“Your reward is waiting for you, mortals. Further down.”**

“Let me guess— that door will remain magically locked until we give this Daedra whatever he wants,” Lumen says, glancing helplessly at the door. “Or, we follow his orders and we die horribly somewhere in the basement of this house.”

“Cicero does not like either option,” he admits. “He would feel a little better if he knew which Daedra we are dealing with. Some are not as bad as others.”

“Something tells me this isn’t one of the nice ones,” she sighs, reaching for his hand. “Come on. We’ve faced worse odds and come out on top. Let’s go have a chat with a Daedra.”

Hand in hand, the two assassins enter the bowels of the house. The hint of something sweet — vanilla, perhaps — permeates the air within the basement, but it does little to disguise the unmistakable stench of rotting flesh. Many have died here. But the bodies are not buried deep enough to hide the reek of decay.

They come upon a room carved deep into the stone beneath the house, and there they find an altar. The air itself quivers with a hungry desperation that sets Cicero’s teeth on edge. “Cicero is not sure what to do,” he admits, but Lumen’s gaze is on the mace attached to the altar, and she gives no indication that she heard him. “Sweet Lumen, wait—”

His warning comes too late. When Lumen’s feet hit the pedestal, several large spikes erupt from the ground, trapping her in a small, dangerously sharp cage. She cringes inward, expecting something more — something worse — but the altar does nothing else.

“Oh, fuck me,” she mutters, furious with herself. “How am I supposed to get out of this thing?”

“Why did you step on the damn thing in the first place?” Cicero snaps, more frightened than irritated. What if he can’t get her out of there? What then?

**“Fools,”** the voice breathes. **“Did you think Molag Bal, the Lord of Domination, would so easily reward you? What do you see from that little cage? Speak, mortal. Do not make me wait.”**

“I see a mace,” Lumen answers, and true to her vexing nature, she adds, “Oh, I’m sorry— a shitty mace.”

“Do not sass the Daedra, sweet Lumen,” he says, torn between exasperation and fear.

**“Yes. It is a mace.”** The Daedric Prince sounds amused, although Cicero does not know if that bodes well or not. **“But it is rusted. Dry. There was a time when this mace dripped with the blood of the feeble and the worthless. But a Daedric Lord has his enemies, and my rival Boethiah had her priest desecrate it. Left it here to decay. Until you came.”**

“I see where this is going.” Lumen folds her arms across her chest, glaring at the bars of the cage. “Everyone comes to me for revenge. There are better ways of asking for my help, though.”

**“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Listener. For it is not revenge I seek, but submission. I want the priest who did this to bend his knee and give me his soul. I want him broken, bleeding, bound, and begging for the pain to end.”** Lumen and Cicero share a glance because the Daedra is beginning to sound positively aroused. **“And who better for the task than you two? I know your appetites. Your desires. I can taste the darkness in your hearts.”**

“Eh, no thanks. That seems like a lot of work, and I’m a busy woman.” Lumen kneels down, attempting to squeeze between the bars of the cage and leave.

A hook fixed to a length of chain shoots up from the base of the altar, narrowly missing Lumen, and wrapping around the bar on the other side of the cage. **“I’m asking nicely.”**

She goes deathly still. “Point taken,” she says, her voice wavering. “So where is this priest now?”

**“He’s on his way. It's difficult to believe a Nord can travel so freely through the Reach. A pity. I used to enjoy watching the Forsworn force the Nords to their knees, but it seems their interests have changed.”**

“I suppose it works out for us,” Lumen cautiously replies. “Rescuing this priest from a Forsworn encampment would not be an easy task.” When Molag Bal does not respond, she says, “All right. We’ll deal with this priest. Will you let me go now?”

The Daedra laughs. **“How sweetly you submit, Listener.”** Lumen visibly recoils at those words, but the bars of the cage sink back into the altar, and she is free. **“Hide. Let the priest make his way to my shrine. You will ruin him here, upon my altar.”**

“What have I gotten us into?” Lumen hisses, leaping from the altar.

Cicero throws his arms around her when she reaches him, holding her close. Things could have gone much worse, considering the Daedra they are dealing with. As it is, his Listener is safe and whole, left unharmed and unmolested by the Daedra most likely to do both.

“It is nothing we cannot handle, sweet Lumen,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. “Come. Let us hide. I think I hear someone upstairs.”

The clutter in the basement provides plenty of cover, and the pair of assassins duck behind a bookshelf. Dark shadows cloud the corners of the room, further hiding them from view. The priest slowly enters the room, casting a spell to detect life. They tense up at the chiming of the spell, but the strange shadows creeping through the house conceal them from his magic. The priest glances around the room, seemingly disappointed. But he doesn’t look around any more than he deems necessary, and he shuffles off down the carved hallway to the altar. The assassins do not leave their hiding spot until they hear the unmistakable sound of the cage coming up to trap Boethiah’s priest.

“Really, Molag Bal?” the priest scoffs. “You think you can best me? I’ve won this fight before!”

**“You have indeed, Logrolf. But this time, I have my own champions.”**

Cicero steps into the room, grinning at the priest trapped within the cage. The Listener has forced her expression into a mask, but he knows she is as eager to engage in a little brutality as he.

“Do you think the Night Mother will take insult to this?” Lumen asks, her loyalty to Mother overriding her desire to inflict pain. “There aren’t any rules against consorting with Daedra, are there?”

“None that Cicero knows of,” he says, delighting in Logrolf’s horrified expression. Not only is the man captured by Molag Bal, but he is facing two Dark Brotherhood assassins. Cicero almost feels sorry for the old fool. “Our hearts belong to the Night Mother. We are only assisting Molag Bal. Cicero does not think she will mind.”

**“Come, Children of Sithis. Take my mace, in all it’s rusted spitefulness. Crush the spirit from Logrolf’s bones. Make him bend to me.”**

“Ladies first,” Cicero purrs, watching as Lumen’s mouth twists into an _adorably_ evil grin. Cicero would never call her “cute” to her face, because he wouldn’t survive it, but she really _is_ cute when she’s lusting for blood.

She takes the mace from the altar and gives it a few experimental swings. Satisfied with its weight, she approaches the cage, grinning down at her cowering prey. The smile vanishes when she strikes, the mace smacking into Logrolf’s frail form with a bone-shattering crunch. A warm spray of blood spatters the bars of the cage. Lumen’s eyes linger on the mace, watching the blood ooze between the spikes and drop to the floor. Despite the damage done by just one hit, the old Nord is still conscious. He sways on his feet and spits vile curses at the assassins, but not for long. Lumen brings the mace down again and again, until the last brutal strike proves to be fatal.

Lumen stares down at the dead priest. “Oopsie,” she sing-song’s, not sounding the least bit repentant.

Heat blooms in Cicero’s chest and settles between his legs. He loves this side of her; playfully sadistic and delightfully wicked. She looks beautiful when she's standing over a fallen victim with a spray of blood drying on her armor. It’s moments like this that remind him why he fell in love with her in the first place. He would do _anything_ for her, especially if she looked at him the way she’s looking at Logrolf right now.

**“You mortals and your weak, pathetic bodies.”** The air around Logrolf’s body shifts and time flows backward as his wounds vanish and his life is restored. **“Try again.”**

“Cicero, do you—” her words falter when her eyes meet his, seeing the heat within them.

“Cicero is rather enjoying the show.” His hand slides down to grip the erection pressing against his trousers. “Keep going.”

“With pleasure,” she purrs, lifting the mace high, eager to return to the task.

“Stop! No more!” The priest cries. “I yield.”

The priest’s submission is a little disappointing. Cicero had hoped the man would hold out for just a bit longer. But he’s not too upset about it. The sooner Molag Bal gets what he wants, the sooner Cicero can get what _he_ wants.

**“You bend to me?”** the Daedra growls, his voice oozing with pleasure.

Logrolf sinks to his knees. “Yes.”

**“You pledge your soul to me?”** he asks, his voice rising with anticipation. **“You forsake the weak and pitiful Boethiah?”**

“Yes,” the priest sighs, utterly defeated.

A bestial laugh rattles the room, and Molag Bal says, **“Finish him, Listener.”**

With a mighty swing of the mace, Lumen quickly ends Logrolf’s suffering. It’s not so much an act of mercy, but a desire to conclude their business with Molag Bal. She is as eager to get her hands on Cicero as he is to get his hands on her.

The mace lifts from her hands, the rust falling from it as a green light burns from within. **“A gift for the Children of Sithis. I give you my mace in its true power. Use it well. Now, I have a soul in Oblivion that needs claiming. Take care of the house while I'm gone.”**

Lumen gingerly grasps the mace from where it floats mid-air. She cautiously backs away from the shrine, and into the basement. Her movements are slow and measured as she gingerly sets the mace down. But she is a flurry of motion once the Daedric artifact is out of her hands. Pauldrons and gauntlets drop to the floor as the Listener removes the more cumbersome parts of her armor.

Cicero intends to help her— he really does. But when he reaches her, his mouth is on her neck, and his hands are smoothing across her hips. He doesn’t mourn the loss of her spiky armor, but he would prefer it if his Listener kept the leather on. Beneath her armor, she is warm and soft. But _soft_ is the last thing he wants right now. He wants her to be brutal. He craves her cruelty. Cicero needs the hardness of the leather and the bruising force of her strength.

“You’re distracting me,” she says, gasping when his teeth scrape across the hollow of her throat.

“Keep your armor on.”

He presses close to her, the metal studs along her thigh are painful against his sensitive erection, but the pain is what he wants. What he _needs_. With all that's been happening with the assassins and with the sudden arrival of Pontius, it feels as if everything is spiraling wildly out of control. He just wants to surrender to his Listener’s will for a little while. Because when he submits to her he knows she will take care of him. Everything will be okay as long as she’s in control.

“Tell me what you want,” she asks, so well composed despite Cicero’s wandering hands.

“I don’t want to make decisions,” he growls, frustrated with his inability to voice his desires.

“I can make them for you. But I think limitations are important.”

Cicero shakes his head, hoping to clear the fog of desire long enough to give her a coherent answer. “No cuts. No blood. Cicero has bled enough lately.” He guides her hand to his neck. “I just want you to be in control.”

“I think I can accomplish that.” The gentle kiss that follows her words is the last kindness she will show him for a while.

“What do you want, Listener? Cicero will do anything you ask.”

Her fingers tighten around his neck as she whispers, “Anything I want, I will take from you.”

A jolt of desire shoots through him, and stars flash in his vision, but he does not fear. His darling Listener knows just how much force a throat can take before its crushed. She’ll only hurt him because he asked, and she would never do irreparable harm.

They are both too wound up to drag this out for long, and there is simply not enough time. Arnbjorn and Pontius are probably nearing Morthal by now, and with all that’s been happening, they cannot force them to wait for too long. Still, Lumen does not seem to be in a hurry as she guides them to the floor. She releases her grip on Cicero's throat long enough to yank his trousers down, but then her hand is back around his neck. Still fully clothed, she settles herself on his hips, trapping his erection between her leather-clad sex and his abdomen. Cicero gasps, his nerves alight with confusion as pleasure and pain collide.

His heart races at the way her eyes bore into him. She looks at him as she would a victim, her gaze clouded by intent and desire. “I’d draw this out for _hours_ if we only had more time.” Lumen punctuates her remark by pressing harder against Cicero, drawing a strangled whimper from his throat.

Oh, how he wishes for more time. The hard leather compressing his erection is delightfully agonizing. He wonders how long it will take before he breaks. How long before he turns into a sobbing mess, begging for release? “Cicero does not think he’d survive it,” he grits out.

“Perhaps we will find out when we have more time at our disposal.” She tilts her head. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he sighs, eager to be rid of this ache that has plagued him for so long. 

He watches through heavy lidded eyes as she removes her belt and shoves her leather trousers down. A grin curls her lips when she notices him watching. “You will not touch me,” she says as she binds his wrists together with her belt. “You will not concern yourself with my pleasure. I will use you as I see fit.”

A whimper escapes him as two gloved fingers slide into his mouth, compressing his tongue. Lumen settles on his hips, slowly taking him in, inch by inch, until he is fully sheathed inside of her. Cicero groans at the sensation of her tight, wet heat enveloping him after waiting and _aching_ for so long. She rolls her hips, her thighs clenching tight against his sides. His first instinct is to match her movements, but the action would likely be met with reproach. So he settles for teething and sucking at those fingers inside his mouth. Tension builds between his legs, and he does everything he can to stave off his impending orgasm. But he has no hope of holding out for long with Lumen setting an unrelenting pace.

Cicero is at war with himself because her pleasure should come first. Though he tries to hold back, he loses all sense when her hand drifts between her legs to tease that particular knot of nerves. The coiling tension in his spine grows tighter as he watches Lumen bring herself off. A soft cry escapes her, and when she bites her lip and throws her head back, Cicero _shatters_.

The world is an explosion of light and heat, and he is only distantly aware of his low moan mingling with her cries. The velvety grip of her body has him gasping for breath, and even though the basement floor is cold and hard against his back, the Fool of Hearts couldn’t be happier. 

Lumen removes her belt from his wrists, and he rests his newly freed hands on her thighs, reveling in the feeling of hard muscle beneath supple skin. Cicero would gladly stay like this forever, if only they could. He tells her this, and she rewards him with an indulgent smile. She expresses her own desire to linger, but they have places to go and people to kill.

“If we hurry we might be able to make it home by nightfall,” she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead before pulling away.

He mourns the loss of her touch when her body parts from his. But he understands her haste. With the hunters dogging their every step, it would be foolish to be on the road after dark. So they clean up and dress in comfortable silence, both eager to be home after being away for so long.

They leave Markarth without further incident. The residents of the ancient city watch them as they pass by, but none approach. They seem put off by the mace at Lumen's hip, which suits the pair of assassins just fine.

No words pass between them as they travel. Cicero knows he is uncharacteristically quiet, and he is aware of the Listener’s gaze upon him. She can tell something is bothering him, but she knows better than to ask. That she knows to give him space warms his heart— how long has it been since someone has tried to understand him so well? Poor, worthless Cicero doesn't deserve such kindness, and the guilt nipping at his heels only serves to fuel his anxiety. There are too many words crowding his mouth. Too many intrusive thoughts in his head. He wants to tell her about his past with Pontius because he cannot ask for honesty if he isn’t able to return it, but the subject is hard to broach.

Cicero has no desire to uncover the ruins of his past, and so he is content to let the subject of Pontius slip by for one more day. Someday, he’ll be ready, and he will tell Lumen everything he can recall. Someday— 

But not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had not intended to write about the House of Horrors quest line, but my muse kept pointing me in that direction, so I went with it! I apologize for taking so long to get this chapter out. I've been dealing with some health problems that have kept me from doing much of anything lately (writing, working, etc.) So updates might be slow until I get my health sorted out, but rest assured that I have no plans to give up on this fic!


	9. The Mother We Share

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of necrophilia. Nothing too graphic, but it's there.

It is after midnight when four, road-weary assassins approach the Black Door. The Sea of Ghosts laps at the shore line, and frost-coated blades of grass snap beneath their leather boots. But an unnatural stillness permeates the air near the Sanctuary. There is no sound coming from the Black Door. The otherworldly breathing has faded into nothing, and there is no distant beating of an infernal heart calling the assassins back home to Mother.

“Someone has put up wards,” Pontius says. “A smart move, considering the current state of things.”

Lumen’s heart begins to hammer as pure adrenaline rushes through her body. These wards were not here when they left. Did the Thalmor attack the Sanctuary? She gasps for breath, needing to speak, to scream, but she chokes on her fear.

“Everything is fine, tidbit.” Arnbjorn lays a hand on her shoulder. “Luka cast wards around the Sanctuary when I left.”

It is a struggle to regain her composure. Because for a brief moment, everything had come to an end; her home invaded, her siblings slaughtered, and she arrived too late to make a difference. It’s such a childish notion, to think that she could prevent the fall of a Sanctuary. If she possessed that kind of strength, then Falkreath wouldn’t be a ruin.

Cicero has remained silent, thus far. But there is a grim understanding behind his eyes. If anyone can appreciate the desire to save their family or die trying, it’s him.

Once she has regained control of her _Thu’um_ , and she is certain she won’t breathe fire, she says, “I’m fine. I should’ve known Luka would set wards. I just—”

“Assumed the worst,” Cicero supplies.

“Yes.”

Her fears dissipate when the Black Door creaks open, and a familiar blond head pokes out from behind it. Luka gasps when he lays eyes on Lumen and Cicero. “Oh, good! It’s you! I thought the mud crabs had tripped my wards again. Those beasts are a damn nuisance. But now you’re home, and I can take my wards down, and Cyril can finally cast a glamor on our Sanctuary and— Oh, it’s just so _good_ to see you!”

He continues his babbling as he greets everyone; hugging Lumen, Cicero, and even Arnbjorn— who surprisingly accepts the gesture with minimal grouching. But when Luka reaches Pontius he starts fussing with his robe, unsure of how to greet the newcomer.

“These wards are your doing?” Pontius asks. “They’re quite good. I had no idea they were here until I’d walked completely through it. You must be a powerful mage.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Luka waves off the compliment.

The two exchange names as they all file inside the Sanctuary. Cicero and Pontius head to the common area where the rest of the family is gathering. Arnbjorn retreats to his room, citing a need for some time alone. Luka and Lumen linger in the foyer. The Night Mother’s presence fills the overlook, and she is _not_ happy. Rather than face Mother so soon, Lumen takes her time in removing her boots and leaving her weapons on a rack. 

“Tell me about these glamor charms Cyril plans to use on the Sanctuary.” She tosses her traveling pack aside and closes the distance between herself and Luka. “And give me another hug.”

“Did you miss me?” he laughs, wrapping his skinny arms around her shoulders.

“You have no idea,” she murmurs, unwilling to reveal too much. Every day, she noticed his absence. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on him until he was not around, and she missed him terribly.

Luka seems completely at ease with their closeness, allowing the embrace to linger on as long as she wishes. “I hope you plan to tell me what happened. It’s not every day you come home with a new sibling.”

“I’ll tell you everything, but first I want to hear about these charms,” she says, finally pulling away.

“As far as I know, it’s a type of magic intrinsic to vampires. Cyril can cast a glamor on himself to make himself appear more alive, or more attractive, or even more terrifying. But he can also cast them over small portions of land. So he can make the door invisible to anyone who isn’t a part of this Sanctuary, which is something we should have been doing ages ago, but I certainly didn’t know he could do it.”

“I didn’t know either, but it’s a fantastic idea.” She lingers in the doorway for a moment, before finally stepping out into the overlook. The Night Mother’s presence is warm and comforting, despite her clear anger with her foolish Listener. Mother does not call to her, but at least Lumen can feel her presence again. Even angry, Mother’s aura will always comfort her Listener.

Lumen walks to the staircase and looks down into the common area. There, most of the family is gathered around Pontius and Cicero. She expected the majority of the racket would be caused by the Keeper, as it so often is. But it is Pontius who has her brothers and sisters in stitches. The handsome Imperial is regaling his family with a tales of bygone times, and though Lumen would love to listen in, she finds that she could use a little time alone— or spent with a good friend.

“Shall we join them?” Luka’s voice pulls her attention away from the commotion below.

“Not yet.”

“Do you need to talk, dear?”

“Yeah.” She takes a step away from the staircase, opting to take the long way to her chambers. “It’s a dreadfully long story. Luckily for you, I have some wine hidden in my bedroom for occasions such as these.”

Her bedchamber is dark and cold, but only a for a moment. Luka lifts a hand, and all the candles flare to life, startling her in the process. After a sheepish apology, he begins building a fire while Lumen pours them each a glass of wine. _True_ wine glasses are not common in Skyrim, as the locals are fond of sturdier materials such as wood or clay. But Cicero always said wine did not taste as good in a goblet of clay, and he pilfered some glasses from the Blue Palace when they were last in Solitude.

Lumen empties half the glass in one gulp. “Will you help me out of my armor? I can’t do it on my own.”

“This is why I stick with robes. They are much easier to get in and out of.”

“Easier to get killed in, too,” she says, setting the glass down before she begins fussing with her belts.

They lapse into a comfortable silence as he helps her out of her armor. There is a sense of peace that comes from loving someone, and being loved, without any sexual attraction existing between them. Sex is never _required_ with Cicero, or Arnbjorn, but it can be an underlying distraction, and it is a distraction that does not exist with Luka.

When she is stripped down to her soft under armor, she throws herself into a chair near the fireplace. She reaches for her wine glass, while Luka settles into the chair next to her, waiting for her to speak.

“Remember when Cicero and I left the Sanctuary? We were going to find a petitioner?” She glances at Luka, and he nods. “Well, I lied. Sort of— Mother did not speak to me, but I could _feel_ the Sacrament. But it was a trap. The assassins that are hunting us set up a fake Sacrament in Helgen and I fell for it. Cicero was injured as a result, and if Arnbjorn hadn’t shown up with he did, we’d probably be dead.” Lumen breathes a mirthless laugh as she leans back in her chair. “I thought Cicero was going to kill me.”

“He would never—”

“He would’ve been right to do it,” she says, a chill running down her spine at the memory of his rage. “I was dishonest about the Sacrament, and I put my siblings in danger. The Dark Brotherhood has no use for a Listener who lies.”

He leans back in the chair. “Why didn’t you just tell Cicero you could feel the Sacrament, but that Mother didn’t speak?”

“Because I’m an idiot,” she snaps, angry with herself. “I didn’t want to give him another reason to worry, but I made everything worse.”

“Where’d you find the new guy?” he asks, wisely changing the subject.

“Well,” she begins, eternally grateful to Luka for shifting the conversation on to other things. If they had continued to speak about her epic mistake, she’d probably start bawling. “We decided to travel through the pine forest just outside of Falkreath, and that’s when Arnbjorn noticed someone was in our old Sanctuary. That someone was Pontius.”

“What was he doing there?” he asks, alarmed. “I thought it was sealed up!”

“It was,” she says, nursing her wine. “He's Brotherhood. He came from the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. I guess he thought he could find us there.”

“I suppose if he was looking to reunite with the Dark Brotherhood, Falkreath isn’t a bad place to start. But if he knew about Falkreath, then shouldn’t he have known to come to Dawnstar?”

“I have no idea. Dawnstar had been empty for ages, so maybe he didn’t know about it.” Her fingers curl around her wine glass, and she watches the firelight dance across the red liquid within. “Pontius seems loyal enough. He helped us fight the Thalmor assassins. But…”

“Go on,” Luka urges. “Anything you have to say will remain between us. I promise.”

Lumen takes a deep breath. “Pontius was one of Cicero's siblings when the Cheydinhal Sanctuary was still active. Cicero thought he was dead all this time. But, what bothers me is that Cicero remained in that Sanctuary for ten years, and Pontius never came back. He said it was too dangerous, but I don’t buy it.”

“When he was telling you this, was it in private or in front of Arnbjorn and Cicero?”

“We’ve always been within earshot of the others.”

“Perhaps you should try to get him alone to question him. He might be more willing to divulge information if it’s just you. It will feel less like an interrogation that way.”

She slouches in her chair, crossing one foot over the other as she warms her toes by the fire. “Maybe I should have Cicero do it? They knew each other— granted, I don’t know how close they were. But maybe he’d rather speak with him.”

Luka snorts. “Would _you_ want to tell Cicero why you left him hanging for ten years?”

“Gods, no.”

“That settles it, then,” Luka says, pleased at having found a solution. “Take him out on a contract or a supply run. Anything. Just get him alone and see if he talks.”

“Thank you,” she blurts out.

“For what, dear?”

“For listening to me.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. “Now all I have to do is convince Cicero to let me leave the Sanctuary without him shadowing me.”

“I’m sure I can distract him.”

Lumen glances at Luka, surprised to see a devious smirk curling his mouth. “I’ll want details,” she says, grinning.

“And you’ll have them.” He smoothes out his robes as he stands. “Shall we join the others? It sounds like we’re missing quite the party.”

“Yeah. Go on ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

* * *

Lumen twists her freshly washed hair into a messy bun, and dresses in a loose-fitting tunic and a pair of breeches. The sounds of revelry drift down the hallway, but she’s not quite ready to face a crowd. Instead of heading to the common area, she makes her way to the overlook where the Night Mother rests, fully prepared to beg for forgiveness if it comes to that.

An otherworldly breeze tugs at the loose strands of Lumen’s hair. The Night Mother’s presence fills the room, but she holds her silence. She is no different than a patient mother waiting for her errant child to speak.

“Your Listener might be an idiot.” She waits for the Night Mother to respond, and when she doesn’t, she continues to speak. “I don’t know what I expect to happen. I don’t know what I _need_ to happen. I just— I don’t know how omnipresent you are. But I mislead my brothers. I lied. I lead us into danger, and we almost didn’t make it out alive. Maybe they can forgive me, but I can’t forgive myself.”

Gentle, ethereal fingers touch her cheek. _“What do you seek, child?”_

Lumen closes her eyes, reveling in the Night Mother’s aura. “Absolution.”

_“You will find it in Yngvild.”_

A vision flashes in her mind; an Altmer in black robes, surrounded by the reanimated corpses of young women. A sense of disgust settles over her when she sees his hands drift across the bound body of a draugr. The touch is far too intimate to be mistaken for idle curiosity. It isn’t difficult to understand why Mother wants him dead.

The visions fade and Mother’s presence recedes. Lumen pinches the bridge of her nose, waiting for her head to clear. Mother has never given her visions before, nor has she sent her to kill without speaking to a petitioner first. This is personal, but she doesn’t know _why_. Perhaps the Night Mother has a sense of solidarity toward other corpses or an extreme hatred of necrophiles.

Lumen finally shakes the dizzying haze from her mind, and when she opens her eyes, she finds Pontius watching her. The narrowing of her eyes is almost reflexive. He may be Brotherhood, but he is still a stranger to her.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Do you need something?”

His mouth thins and his eyes dart from Lumen to the Night Mother. “I never saw her before. Cicero always kept the coffin shut, and before that, she was sealed in a tomb. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to see the Night Mother for myself.”

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Cicero tends to her every Fredas, so long as he’s home to do it.”

Pontius steps closer to the Night Mother’s shrine. “He takes his duties very seriously, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

“He always did,” Pontius laughs. “Any other assassin would’ve fought against a forced retirement. But not Cicero. He accepted his fate and threw himself into the role of Keeper like he was born for it. Who knows? Maybe he was.”

Lumen bites her lip. She and Pontius are as alone as one can get in the Sanctuary, and while she knows she should ask him more important questions, she allows her curiosity to win out. “What was he like? Back then. Before— well, _everything_.”

“Cicero was quiet and intimidating. He had a hard time fitting in because of that. Whenever he’d crack a joke, everyone was too afraid to laugh.” Pontius smiles at the memory. “We were all afraid he’d kill us for it. But he’s better at that now. Maybe it’s the jester persona he’s adopted.”

“He adopted it well,” she says. “I thought he’d been a jester before his life as an assassin until he told me otherwise.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it? The loss of a Sanctuary was devastating, and he lost two in quick succession. Maybe it broke him.”

A sudden surge of rage grips her, and before she can spare it a second thought, she’s snarling at Pontius. “Cicero is _not_ broken!”

He holds his hands up as he steps away from Lumen. “I’m sorry. I'm not trying to insult him! But what happened changed him. He was alone for a decade! That he came out of that alive and with his mind relatively intact is a miracle. I don’t think I would have survived!”

“Why didn’t you go back?”

“I thought he was dead,” he says in a voice that’s far too calm for Lumen’s liking. “I thought the Dark Brotherhood had come to an end. So I moved on, and I just kept moving. I went everywhere, from High Rock to Hammerfell. It didn’t matter where I was so long as I didn’t see those damn black cloaks anywhere.” Pontius fidgets with his armor, unable to meet her eyes. “What happened to Cicero was terrible, but—”

“It needed to happen.” Cicero rounds the stairs, but he does not approach his siblings. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the stone wall. “If things had gone differently, perhaps Cicero would not have come to Skyrim. Perhaps he would not have found the Listener.”

“I regret my actions,” Pontius says to Cicero. “I should have come back for you.”

“It’s in the past,” Cicero says, not wishing to discuss it at all. Instead, he turns to Lumen. “Were you communing with Mother? Does she have work for us?”

Lumen swallows hard. It’s difficult to believe Cicero is willing to trust her after all that’s happened. “She has work for me, specifically. I must atone for my mistakes at Helgen. However, I thought I would take Pontius with me. It would be a chance to get to know him better.” Cicero nods his assent, and Lumen turns her attention to Pontius. “So, what do you say?”

Pontius inclines his head. “I am yours, Listener.”

“Good,” she says, still unnerved by his formality. “We’ll leave tomorrow evening. Pack light. We won’t be traveling far.”

Without another word, she walks passed Pontius and down the hallway toward her chambers. Cicero follows behind her, but he does not speak. Lumen can’t stand it, and she breaks the silence when the door clicks shut.

“I am sorry for arguing with Pontius, but—”

“There is no reason to berate him for the actions of his past,” Cicero says wearily. “He cannot undo them.”

Lumen sits down on the edge of the bed, staring down at her hands. The skin around her nails is chapped and peeling from being shoved inside leather gloves for so long. She doesn't know what to say to Cicero. The peace forged between them in tenuous at best, and she is afraid of shattering it.

Cicero sits down beside her, the bed creaking beneath their combined weight. “Where is Mother sending you?”

“Yngvild,” she says. “To kill a necrophiliac necromancer.”

“That’s a mouthful.” Cicero grins, but it fades as quickly as it came. “And you are taking Pontius with you.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No,” he says— a little too quickly for her liking, but she’ll let it slide. “You should be safe with him. He is a skilled fighter. But there is something Cicero ought to tell you about Pontius.”

Oh, gods. What could it possibly be? Cicero being _serious_ never bodes well for anyone. “What is it?”

“He and I were— involved. It was many years ago, and obviously, Cicero got over it. But it happened, and Cicero thought you deserved to know about it. If he expects you to be honest with him, then he ought to show you the same courtesy.”

“You were?” She bites her lip to keep herself from smiling. Of all the things she expected to come out of his mouth, that was not it. But now that she thinks about it, it _does_ explain the underlying tension between the two. She seriously doubts either of them are _over it_ , but she’ll leave it be for now.

Cicero nods. “It wasn’t serious. Just something to pass the time. It only lasted a couple of months, and then it ended when Garnag told Cicero that Pontius had died.”

“It wasn’t serious? I wouldn’t say that to Pontius if I were you. Those longing looks he’s been throwing at you tell an entirely different story.”

“It’s been ten years!” he snaps and then winces when he realizes who he’s snapping at. “It’s been a long time. Cicero has you, and he has Luka. He has no room in his heart for another. He does not _want_ another lover.”

“I’m not suggesting you take him to bed,” Lumen says, exasperated. How has he not figured this out? He’s excellent at reading other people! But perhaps this is simply too personal, and he is avoiding the issue instead of sorting himself out. “I honestly don’t know how I would feel if a long-dead lover suddenly appeared and it turned out he wasn’t quite so dead. But I’d probably try to avoid dealing with it. It’s hard to be vulnerable. It’s hard to talk about the things that hurt us. But sometimes it helps.”

“That is what Cicero is trying to tell you! There is nothing to discuss! It was a fling!”

Lumen suppresses a sigh. “What if it was more than that for Pontius?”

“Oh, come on. You have seen the man.” Cicero rubs his face and falls back onto the bed. He frowns up at the ceiling, pointedly not making eye-contact with Lumen. “Back in Cheydinhal, Pontius could have any brother or sister he wished. All it took was a glance and a smile, and they’d follow him to some dark corner. Pontius only turned his attention my way when no one was left except for me, Rasha, and Garnag. Cicero always assumed he was picked because Pontius had no desire to bed an Orc or a Khajiit.”

“So?”

“ _So_ it was a relationship of convenience. It was something to pass the time. It was nothing then, and it’s nothing now. There’s no sense in talking about it.”

She knows there’s something he’s not telling her. Cicero is _only_ dismissive of a subject when it pains him. “I only want to help.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But I mourned Pontius, and I moved on.” He rolls onto his side, his eyes meeting hers. “I would much rather focus on my current lover than one I haven’t thought of in years.”

Lumen stretches out beside him. “Even if your current lover is a bit of an idiot sometimes?”

“Even so,” Cicero says, a warm smile curling his mouth. “Cicero will forgive his Listener of any mental slip-ups along the way. Mind you— there have been many.”

“Oh, thanks,” she laughs, swatting at him.

Cicero catches her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “You should get some sleep,” he murmurs. “Cicero is going to worry about you when you leave, but he will worry less if he knows you are well rested.”

The urge to sleep has been nipping at her heels since she returned home. Her thoughts are sluggish, and her body feels heavy, but she has craved _this_ for so long. To just lie in bed with Cicero, talking about everything and nothing for hours. But she cannot deny that he is right in that she should rest.

“All right,” she says, squeezing his hand. “Stay with me?”

Cicero smiles. “Always.”

* * *

A cold wind that portends snow sinks its fangs into her skin, but Lumen pays it no mind. Yngvild is just ahead, and even though she is still far from the entrance, the scent of death hangs heavy in the air. Now that she is there, she realizes this fight could prove more dangerous than anticipated. A Nordic ruin on a frigid island is the ideal spot for a necromancer. It is too cold this far north for flies and other scavengers to gather, and there are no people nearby to complain about the smell. This mage is not going to be pleased when Lumen and Pontius come to evict him.

“Be on your guard, even out here,” Lumen says, brushing snowflakes away from her eyelashes. “There will be traps.”

“I’ll d- d- do my best,” Pontius says through chattering teeth. “I c- can’t feel my hands. Perhaps you can use me as b- bait.”

She looks over her shoulder at Pontius. Even though he is bundled in as many cloaks as he can carry, he is shivering uncontrollably. A small smile tugs at her mouth. When she was new to Skyrim, she was always freezing, but she eventually grew used to the cold.

“It’ll be warmer inside the ruin.” And only because she feels sorry for him, she adds, “Walk faster. It will help.”

Once they are inside, he removes the heavy cloaks and hangs them on a broken sconce. He ties his long hair back with a strip of leather, all while sneering at his surroundings. It’s one of the more unkempt ruins Lumen has seen so far. Not that any of the other ruins have been clean, but this one is a bit _lived in_. There are human remains tossed into the far corner of the small foyer, and scattered throughout the hall that leads deeper into the ruin.

“Walk lightly,” she says as she begins to inch down the slope into the cave. “I don’t know much about freshly reanimated corpses, but I know a bit about draugr, and they’re senses are better than you’d think.”

“A what?”

“Draugr. They’re magically reanimated corpses that inhabit Skyrim’s ancient ruins. They protect the ruins from intruders. They’re easy to take down— especially with fire.”

Pontius smirks. “I’ll take the lead, then.”

Lumen allows it, only because she doesn’t want him at her back. She’d rather have him somewhere where she can keep an eye on him. If that means he’ll stand in between her and the draugr, all the better.

They encounter their first draugr soon enough. A bolt of flame and a strike with his sword is all it takes for the draugr’s body to crumble. Pontius pokes at the remains with his foot, fascinated by whatever magic makes them work, but they soon move on to another chamber and encounter more draugr— all of them female. Lumen’s stomach churns as her mind torments her with unwanted thoughts of what the necromancer has been doing to these poor corpses.

They enter a room which contains a table, a bookshelf, and a few niches carved into the walls. The niches were resting places for draugr, but they are empty now. Lumen examines the area and comes across a leather-bound journal. The name Arondil is written on the first page, along with a catalog of entry dates. The pages reek of chemicals and death, but the scent is not nearly as disgusting as the necromancer’s private thoughts.

“Shall I burn it for you?”

The offer warms her heart. “Not yet,” she says, dropping the book in her pack. “There might be more. I want to burn the lot.”

Pontius chews on his bottom lip. “What did it say?” he asks, his voice quieter this time. “I want to know, and I don't want to know. Call it morbid curiosity.”

“Arondil plans to search for lost women and bring them back here,” she tells him. “He’s already captured and killed one. But he wants more. Men like him always want more.”

“Men like him?” he asks, edging into another corridor. “Have you known many necrophiles?”

“No. But I know killers,” she whispers, not wishing to be caught unawares by a draugr. “The fantasy of his deeds will only sustain him for so long. But eventually the memory will fade, and he’ll need that rush again. He’ll need the real thing so he can create a new fantasy. It’s an addiction, and he won’t stop until he’s dead.”

His eyes are full of questions, but he does not give voice to them. A cold burst of fetid wind tells them they are getting closer to their prey. They walk in silence, with Pontius in the lead and Lumen following him deeper into the bowels of the cave. It is becoming difficult to breathe. The oppressive stench of rotting flesh makes the air feel thick, and there is an odd moisture that clings to her armor and coats her throat.

It isn’t hard to guess why Mother sent them here. Yngvild is close to the Sanctuary, and its occupant poses a danger to the women of the Dark Brotherhood. But she wonders if there were petitioners somewhere. She wonders if the petitioners were, in fact, the spirits of the women Arondil has been abusing. If that's the case, then there would be no reason to bother with a traditional contract. But it’s not like she’ll ever know for certain. She could ask, but she doubts she’d get an answer. The Night Mother isn’t big on answering questions.

They pause just outside a large throne room. Lumen clenches her jaw when she gets a good look at the man inside. An Altmer of middle age sits upon a dark throne, surrounded by his so-called servants. An old rage alights within her. While he is no Thalmor, he is no different than they are. They think they can own anything and everything. He hasn’t a care for who these women were. He’s just a parasite who takes what isn’t his.

 _“You’re no better,”_ comes a derisive, inner voice, but Lumen pushes it away. She’s not a good person. Never will be. But there are lines even she won’t cross.

A gentle touch to her shoulder pulls her from her caustic thoughts. Pontius is concerned, but he is not stupid enough to question the Listener. Instead, he nods to the throne room and asks, “Ready?”

Lumen nods and the two assassins spring into action.

The undead are easily dispatched with fire and blade. But the relatively simple task of killing draugr is made all the more difficult with Arondil firing spells at them. “Deal with the dead,” Lumen shouts. “I’ll handle the freak!"

Pontius barks a laugh. “I’m on it!” he calls out. “Shout if you need help!”

“Savage Bosmer,” Arondil growls, his hands alight with snapping electricity. “You're no better than the uneducated idiots of Dawnstar. I wouldn’t expect anyone to understand. My intellectual pursuits are far beyond any of your feeble imaginings.”

“Blah, blah, blah. That’s all I hear.” Lumen dodges the bolts of lightning, and even though her skin is prickling from the proximity of the magic, she does not falter. She knows the pain of electricity, but she also knows that she can survive it— and worse. She's fought dragons, draugr, and numerous Thalmor wizards more powerful than Arondil could ever hope to be. He’s not worthy of her fear.

Pontius comes to stand beside her, spell and sword at the ready. His chest rises and falls as he catches his breath, and his curly hair has come free of its binding. But the draugr are dead, and all that’s left is this miserable waste of an elf standing before them.

 _“Do I trust you? Are you safe?”_ Lumen catches his eye, and Pontius smiles at her. She cannot see anything other than familial fondness in that expression, and she thinks that maybe — just maybe — she can accept his presence at her side.

Arondil is still talking. Madness and arrogance have made him an easy target. “You can’t sass me if you’re not breathing. I think I will prefer you that way,” he snarls, lifting his hand and summoning another arc of lightning.

“I could say the same,” Lumen says, and then she flings her daggers at him. The blades sink into his abdomen, and his spells wink out as he falls to his knees. Severely wounded, but not dead. She approaches the cowering Altmer and kicks him onto his back.

“Please,” he gurgles. “Mercy.”

“Death is the only mercy you’ll know from me.” Lumen yanks her daggers from his stomach, watching the blood gush from the wounds and flow onto the stone floor. “I cannot say what Sithis will have of you. Will you linger in the Void? Will you be sent to some realm of Oblivion for punishment? I wonder…”

“He deserves to become Molag Bal’s plaything considering what he’s done.”

Lumen smirks. “I’ll agree with that,” she says, and then she plunges her dagger directly into the mage’s heart.

A heavy silence fills the tomb as Lumen cleans her daggers on Arondil’s robes. With her weapons back in place, she offers a silent prayer to Sithis. The atmosphere of the ruin lifts somewhat. There is no heaviness to the air, and while the ruin still reeks of death, it isn’t as overwhelming as it once was.

The two assassins do not speak as they explore the throne room. Lumen picks up two more journals, and an assortment of soul gems for Luka and Babette to squabble over. In the chamber just off the throne room, she finds a fourth journal, more gems, and most disturbingly— a bed with skeletal remains in it.

“Sick bastard.” Lumen drops the journals on the bed. The books would probably fetch a good price. The world is full of miscreants eager to read the dark deeds of a deranged mind. But she reckons the world will be a better place if she just erases all evidence of Arondil and his sick desires. He doesn’t deserve to be remembered.

“Shall I burn the bed, Listener?”

Lumen nods and Pontius engulfs the bed in flames.

* * *

The short walk back to the Sanctuary is made more pleasant by the sun warming their backs. The gentle breathing of the Black Door welcomes them home, but the pair of assassins linger by the seaside, watching the distant ships coming and going from Dawnstar's port. Pontius seems content to stand with Lumen, even though he gives in to the occasional shiver. A warm day in northern Skyrim is still colder than mid-winter in Cyrodiil.

“You fought well today,” Lumen says, breaking the silence.

“Thank you, Listener.” He inclines his head. “It feels good to be doing the Night Mother’s bidding again. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now. For the longest time, I felt like I was just— adrift. Lost. But I don’t feel so lost anymore.”

She smiles as she gazes out at sea. “I’d like to talk to you about a personal matter.”

“All right,” he says with some hesitation.

“Cicero told me you two were together once,” she says, seeing no reason to beat around the bush. “I’ve heard his account of your time together. He was a little vague on the details, though, and I was hoping you might enlighten me.”

“I—” Pontius gapes at her. “It was a _very_ long time ago. But— anything you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

Lumen is inordinately pleased to have caught him off guard. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

“As I said, it was a long time ago. I thought Garnag had killed him, just as he tried to kill me. A lot of time has passed since then and now, and I—” he takes a breath, preferring to look out at sea rather than at Lumen. “I don’t know. It’s easy to get over someone when you think they’re dead and you’re half a world away. But seeing him again was unexpected, and I admit that it’s stirred up some dust.” He kicks at a pebble, his eyes focused on the ground. “I know you two are together. I have no intention of messing that up.”

“Your arrival has stirred up quite a few emotions for Cicero, too. He denies it, of course. But I’ve been with him long enough that I can tell when something's not right.” She tilts her head, observing him. “I hear you were a bit of a scoundrel.”

A startled laugh escapes him. “A bit, but I don’t see what this has to do with Cicero and me.”

“He thinks you picked him last. He believes whatever happened between you was based on desperation and no real affection.”

Pontius opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. He sighs heavily and runs his hands through his messy hair. “No wonder he’s been so snappish,” he finally says. “He’s wrong, though.”

“I thought so.” She steps closer to him, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Talk to him, will you? I can’t stand to see him moping about.”

He scowls at her, as if he suspects a trap. “You— you’re not mad? Or jealous?”

“I’m not a child,” she says tersely. “I’m not going to lash out at you for having feelings. My only concern is for his well being. I just want Cicero to be happy. He needs to know that he meant something to you— that he was more than just a warm body.”

Pontius scrubs at his face. The man is usually so unflappable, but now he’s completely off-balance. “Damn,” he says, clearly frustrated. “He wasn’t my last choice. He was my first. But I was too intimidated to approach him. He was one of our best assassins! I didn’t think I was good enough! I was nothing more than a mediocre assassin who’d been lucky enough to be born with a pretty face. That’s the only reason I could get close to my kills. I couldn’t sneak to save my life! I didn’t think he respected me, and I certainly didn’t think he’d _want_ me.”

“There’s no reason to feel intimidated now. You’ve obviously honed your skills as an assassin, and you should be proud of yourself— and you should be telling this to Cicero. Not me.”

“You say that like it’s easy,” he sighs. “I tried not to bring feelings into it. Cicero wasn’t the _type_ for feelings. You didn’t know him then. He was different. There was a coldness to him. He’s still cold when it comes to me.”

Lumen waves her hand in the air. “Cicero only does that when his defenses are up. Trust me, that man is downright _mushy_ to those he cares about.”

Pontius fusses with his cloak. “I’ll think about it,” he says weakly. “I mean— I _will_ do it, I just need some time to build up the courage to approach him. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I can be a bit of a coward.”

“You can’t run forever because sooner or later I’ll force you two to talk.” She grins at him to lessen the bite of her words. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not a patient woman.”

“I picked up on that,” he says, laughing nervously. “I promise I will speak to him. Just— give me a day or two?”

“A day or two. But if you stall I’ll have everyone in the Sanctuary calling you _Hortensius_ from here on out.”

He narrows his eyes, but there is a grin playing on his lips. “Oh, you are cruel,” he purrs, his confidence returning. “I like that.”

“You’ll like it less when I make good on that threat,” she teases.

Neither speak as they watch a flock of gulls come in to rest on the sun-warmed rocks, but then Lumen remembers the whole purpose of this venture. She meant to question Pontius further about why he didn’t return to Cheydinhal. But a pang of guilt hits her when she thinks of how their last conversation turned into a bit of a shouting match. He's a Dark Brother, despite the mistakes of his past, and he deserves a warmer welcome than the one she gave.

“I shouldn’t have shouted at you before,” she says suddenly. “I can’t imagine what you went through when the Dark Brotherhood was falling apart. I don’t blame you for not wanting to return to a dead Sanctuary.”

Pontius nods, silently accepting her apology. “I thought about going home every day for the last ten years, but I— I was too scared to try. I hated myself for it.”

“You’re home now, brother. That’s all that matters.”

His head snaps up at that, a look of genuine surprise on his face. Slowly — cautiously — a smile appears. There is a wetness to his eyes, but no tears fall. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming out in a rush of breath. “I _missed_ this. Having a family. I suppose that sounds silly…”

“It’s not silly at all,” she says, curling her fingers around his wrist, and leading him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially, this chapter had smut, and action, and more smut. But then… exhaustion took over, and I decided the smut could be saved for a later chapter. (Sorry!) I decided to focus on character relationships instead. Lumen and Luka’s friendship is near and dear to my heart. She and Cicero needed to talk (even if he is being a little touchy about things), and then there’s the unknown that is Pontius. Lumen doesn’t deal well with strangers, so I thought it could be fun and interesting to see how they play off each other. They’re getting along better than I expected, all things considered.
> 
> The plot will advance more in the next chapter, I promise. However, I don’t know how soon I will post the next chapter. It’s not finished, and I’ve been battling some health problems which have finally advanced to the point where I need surgery to fix them. However, once I break free from the fog of pain medication, I’ll probably spend a lot of my recovery writing. I think it will be a much needed escape.


	10. Red Flags And Long Nights

_**24th of Morning Star, 4E 189** _

_It is a new year, and two months since the Night Mother first arrived here at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, and still the Unholy Matron has not seen fit to speak to any one of us._

_And so, Rasha has decided to revive an ancient Dark Brotherhood tradition - the appointing of a Keeper, a guardian whose sole duty is the safeguarding of the Night Mother's remains. The remaining members of the Black Hand will make their decision tomorrow._

* * *

_Cicero blew on the wet ink of his latest journal entry. The flame of a nearby candle quivered violently in protest, but it did not gutter out. There was so much more to be said, but there was much he did not wish to recount. Not now. Not ever. There was no reason to speak of the infighting happening among the Black Hand, or the desperate fear glazing the eyes of the younger siblings. He did not have it in himself to chronicle his feelings on the matter. Out of habit, he’d choked them down, determined to crush his grief and fury until he was numb._

_He pushed away from the writing table and looked around the empty bedroom. He once shared this room with three siblings, but they were dead. There were more rooms like this in the Sanctuary. Places that had been so full of life were little more than collections of dusty furniture and painful memories._

_Movement in the hallway startled him into slamming his journal shut. “Who’s there?” he barked, whipping his head toward the door._

_“It’s just me,” Pontius stammered. “I came to talk but— I can come back later.”_

_Cicero cursed at himself for being so jumpy. “I’m not busy,” he said, waving Pontius inside._

_He cautiously entered the bedroom. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He took a breath with the intent to speak again, but then he pressed his lips together in a polite, albeit nervous smile, and waited._

_“It’s fine.” He watched his fellow assassin fidget with his gloves. Pontius and Cicero rarely spoke more than they needed to. His brother’s cocky attitude often got on his nerves. But Cicero reckoned that if he had Pontius’ looks and heedless grace, he’d probably be a cocky shit, too. That usual air of confidence was nowhere to be seen, though, and a very nervous Pontius was standing before him. “Speak, brother,” Cicero urged. “If you need my help, you need only ask.”_

_Pontius breathed a laugh and ran his hand through his short, sable curls. “I need so many things, brother, and I— I am not often at a loss for words, but I am not quite sure how to say what I need to say.”_

_Cicero bit back a sigh. “Take your time,” he said, exuding a patience he did not feel._

_The Imperial grimaced, undoubtedly sensing Cicero’s agitation. “When I wake up I expect to hear them breathing,” he said, cutting his eyes to the empty beds lining the wall. “I listen for the gentle push and pull of their breath until I remember they’re gone.”_

_With every syllable that left his lips, Cicero could feel his nerves fraying. But he composed himself and said, “I miss them too, Pontius. But they would want us to stay strong.”_

_“I know,” he said, his voice rough. “But I’m sick of being lonely. Can I stay in here with you?”_

_“Of course,” Cicero said, casting a glance at the dreadfully empty room. “There are three unclaimed beds. You may have your pick of the lot.”_

_“What if I want your bed?”_

_“This is hardly the time to squabble over one’s sleeping space,” he snorted, as he turned back to see Pontius edging closer to him. A sneer stopped the other man in his tracks, but irritation gave way to curiosity when he took note of the heat in Pontius’ eyes. “What are you playing at?” he demanded, unsure of how to proceed. “What do you want?”_

_Pontius remained silent, but Cicero knew what he was after. There weren’t many siblings left to pick from if one wanted company. Garnag was too intimidating to approach, and he’d always made his inclination toward women clear. Rasha was, as far as Cicero could tell, utterly uninterested in sex. He rebuffed advances from brother and sister alike, and whenever a conversation would turn toward more bawdy subjects, he would not participate._

_It hurt to be someone’s last choice. But he wasn’t sure if it was a point worth arguing. Any day could be their last, and while forming attachments would be foolish, it would be nice just to lose himself for a few hours. So what if he was Pontius’ last choice? He was right there in front of him. He was warm and alive, and willing._

_“For Sithis’ sake,” Cicero sighed. “If you want me to bed you, just say so. If you can’t manage the words, then leave.”_

_Pontius jerked back at the bite of those words. There was something like pain flaring behind his eyes, and Cicero liked what he saw. He didn’t know how to be kind. Soft touches and warm words were unknown to him. But pain and cruelty— those things he could handle. It was what he knew._

_It was a challenge. Pontius would have to admit what he was after, or he would leave. Assassins weren’t the type of people who readily submitted to anyone. So Cicero wasn’t surprised when Pontius called him a prick and left the room. He’d be back. Desperation would take hold, and he would return to Cicero, and — most importantly — he would have to do things Cicero’s way._

* * *

“Finally!”

Cicero marks the page in the book he’s been reading when Lumen bursts into their room. Only now does he notice the ache building in his neck from staying in one position for too long. He’d been stretched out on his stomach, content as a Khajiit in a sunbeam as he lost himself in a book. Despite the interruption, he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed with Lumen for shattering that moment of peace. Not when she looks so happy.

“What has you in such a fine mood?”

“Madanach finally did the Sacrament!” Her giddiness melts into irritation when she says, “I’ve been waiting forever!”

“It has only been two weeks.” Cicero grins at his Listener’s frustration. “Maybe less.”

“It’s been _too long_! The man can’t just tell me he wants someone killed and then take forever—”

“Two weeks.”

“— to do the Sacrament!” Lumen finishes her rant with a wave of her arms.

“Perhaps he needed to work up the courage to face you again,” Cicero purrs as he rolls onto his side. “You do seem to delight in giving him a hard time.”

“It’s no less than what he deserves.”

He does not miss the smile that curls her lips. The Listener has grown fond of the old Forsworn warrior. He has proven to be a useful ally on more than one occasion. Cicero is quiet for a while, watching as she grabs their traveling packs and begins to fill them with essential items: Spare clothes, armor repair kits, potions, and salves. Rations and water will be added when they leave in the morning.

Cicero pushes into a sitting position, his fingers working at the knot in his neck. “Cicero cannot blame him. It is so much fun to tease you, sweet Lumen.”

She tosses their packs near the door. “There should be a tenet against harassing the Listener,” she says, stretching her arms over her head before sinking down on the bed.

The corner of his mouth curves into a half-smirk. “Cicero is glad there isn’t. He would have violated it ten times over.”

“More than that.” She tugs his hands away from his neck and replaces his fingers with her own. “Let me help with this.”

Cicero leans into her touch. Fingers, both strong and gentle, chase the aches from his sore muscles.The hands of his lover are the hands of a killer, and Cicero wouldn’t want it any other way. He’s seen her at her cruelest, and at her sweetest— and her cruelty is what makes these moments all the more enjoyable. Just knowing those hands could expertly snap his neck sends a little thrill all the way down his spine, and straight to his cock. He’s just about to tell her about it, but a knock at the door as him adjusting himself and feigning innocence.

“Come in,” Lumen calls out. Unaware — or uncaring — of the state he’s in.

The door opens just a fraction, and Luka’s blond head pokes inside. “Lumen it’s time for— oh, and I interrupting? I am. I _definitely_ am. I can come back later—”

“It’s fine,” she says, pressing a kiss to the back of Cicero’s neck while she scoots off the bed. “Cicero could do with a bit of healing magic if you don’t mind.”

Luka steps toward the bed with a grimace. Looking all the world like a man who’s walking across broken glass. He mouths a silent _”Sorry”_ before murmuring an incantation that soothes Cicero’s aches away— except for the one between his legs. Damn them both. 

“I only need to borrow Miss Lumen for a few hours. Maybe less. Casting can be quite draining sometimes.”

“How did you manage to talk sweet, _stubborn_ Lumen into taking her casting lessons seriously?” he asks, hoping that talk of the mundane will take his mind off of _other_ things. “She’s been avoiding them like the plague.”

“It was her idea, actually,” Luka says with a faint smile.

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek, clearly not wanting praise for her change of heart. “There’s been so many times where knowing magic would have given me the winning edge in a fight. I’m not going to fail my family, or you, again. We’ll find out what elements call to me, and I will master them.”

Something like pride swells in his chest. “Do not let Cicero keep you from this task,” he says. “He will find other ways to occupy his time.”

Luka and Lumen file out of the room, and when the door snaps shut, Cicero reaches for his book. He settles into the pillows for the sake of his neck, ready to dive back into the story that had captured his attention earlier. His cock, however, has other plans and is being rather insistent. So Cicero conjures up images of toe fungus, draugr, worms, and whatever else he finds disgusting. _Anything_ to make that ache go away.

“Cicero?” Pontius’ voice calls out from beyond the door. “Are you busy?”

Cicero jumps. The book tumbles from his hands and lands into his lap— right on top of a rather sensitive area, made all the more sensitive by the increased blood flow. A wheeze escapes him. “Pontius,” he gasps, trying not to sound as pained as he truly is. “Come in.” A wave of nausea rolls in his gut. At least his body is no longer interested in sexual contact of any sort. Not after _that_.

“Are you—” Pontius edges inside the room, confusion writ across his features. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He throws his legs over the side of the bed, prepared to stand whenever he can do so without his legs wobbling. “Cicero is healthy and hale. No need to worry.”

“Good, because I thought we could do some training. It’s been ages since we properly sparred. You were always able to kick my ass. But I always learned from you, too.”

“Very well.” Cicero stands. A little uncomfortable, but the discomfort will ebb away in time. “Give me a moment to change. I’ll meet you down in the training pit.”

* * *

Ten minutes in, and Cicero has already broken a sweat. But he is doing better than Pontius, who is sent sprawling to the ground by a well-placed punch. “Watch your feet,” he says, holding a hand out to the fallen assassin. “Balance is crucial to winning a fight.”

The training pit is a large, circular room stocked with all manner of weapons, training dummies, and extra armor. There is not much light aside from the bracketed sconces lining the walls. But the dim light only adds to the challenge— giving the assassins shadows to hide in, but also shadows to fear. Their siblings often lurk in the darkness, and they’re known to spring out at anyone foolish enough to think they are the only ones utilizing the room that day. It’s why they are so damned good at what they do. They train hard. They train as a unit. A family. Pushing each other to the limit— and shattering those limits.

Pontius clasps Cicero’s offered arm and gets to his feet. “See? I’m learning already.” He gives Cicero that lovers smile of his, and wipes sweat from his brow, leaving a smear of dirt in its wake. “It’s been awhile since I’ve trained like this.”

While he trusts his brother, he doubts the truth in that statement. Cicero spent ten years on his own, but he trained every day. When he left the Sanctuary, he picked fights, and he won those fights. And when he brought Mother to Skyrim, he had to protect her from bandits and nosy guards alike. “You will improve with practice,” he says, spreading his feet and preparing for another round.

“Could we take a break?”

Cicero huffs a winded laugh. “We’ve only just begun.

“I know.” Pontius runs a hand through his hair as he sits down on a nearby bench. “But I need to talk to you. In fact, I promised the Listener that I would. And I had to _beg_ her to let me drag it out this long.”

Dread settles in the pit of his stomach like a lead weight. But despite his reservations, Cicero sits on the far edge of the bench, prepared to hear his brother out. “Speak, then.”

“All right,” he sighs, building up his courage. “Lumen said you were under the impression that you were my last choice— that I chose you out of desperation and nothing more. That’s why you’ve been so curt with me.”

He groans. “That was meant to remain between Lumen and Cicero.”

“Well, I’m glad it didn’t, because you’re wrong. You’re _so_ wrong.” The torchlight dances across the gold flecks in his hazel eyes as he stares Cicero down. “I wanted you from the first day we met. But I was _terrified_ of you, and I didn’t have the balls to approach you until those final days. Because I knew we were on borrowed time, and if I died, I didn’t want to die with regrets.”

A cruel laugh escapes him. “So you fucked me so you could die without regrets?”

“No. Cicero— let me try again. That came out wrong.” He looks away, his unbound hair slipping over his shoulders. His voice is strangely soft when he says, “What I mean is that… I might have been in love with you.”

The words hit him like a kick to the chest. “You did not act like it,” he snaps, instantly defensive. Of all the stupid things to say...

“You wouldn’t have appreciated it,” Pontius mutters darkly. “Had I come to you with declarations of love, you would have thrown me out on my ass.” Cicero doesn’t respond to that, because he’s _right_. At least Pontius seems content to fill the silence with noise, and for that, he is grateful. “Certainly you remember the man you were. You’re all smiles and laughter now. But, then? You were different. At least you seem happier now. I know the jester-thing is a mask, but when I look beyond it I see _you_ , and you are happy.”

He is, isn’t he? Happy. _Content_ , even. Never in a million years did poor, miserable Cicero ever think he'd find something as elusive as happiness. “I was cruel to you in those days,” he says, his chest tightening. “For that, I apologize. I was young and stupid.”

“It doesn’t matter. Now is what matters. And I just— I couldn’t stand the thought of you hating me and thinking that you were my last choice when the opposite was true.”

“I did not hate you,” he says, that tight coil in his chest loosening its grip.

“I just want things to be easy between us,” Pontius says, his voice quiet. Shaky. “I just want to be your friend. It’s all I ever wanted.”

“If you want my friendship, then you have it.” He can sense the silent question between them— will their friendship ever become something more? They may have passed the time together in Cheydinhal. But it’s different now. Cicero does not want another lover, and he is content to let that question linger until Pontius gives voice to it. No sense in treading those murky waters now. “Come on,” he says, gently smacking Pontius on the arm. “Enough stalling. Get on your feet. Your form is atrocious.”

Pontius snorts. “What do you expect? I spent the last ten years running— and drinking heavily.”

“Yes, I can tell,” Cicero purrs as he gets to his feet. “And while Cicero has heard stories of Khajiit who have mastered the Whispering Fang style so completely they do their best fighting while drunk— you, my dear Pontius, are not that skilled.”

“That’s rude,” he says, but the smile takes the bite out of his words. “I’m not even drunk!”

Cicero stalks his brother like a fox cornering a rabbit, sizing him up. “You drank a few hours ago. Cicero can smell it in your sweat. The alcohol is slowing you down. A fight can break out at any time, brother, and you must be prepared. So if you are merely tipsy, drunk, or hungover, you need to be able to work with it.”

The cocky smile fades. “Tell me what to do.” Pontius regards Cicero with a look so serious, so intense, if they were not friends, Cicero would reach for a blade. “I want to be ready for anything. We can’t be too careful with these hunters after us. I want to be able to protect this Sanctuary, and our Listener, no matter what.”

“Cicero will teach you everything he knows. But first, let’s start with keeping you on your feet.”

* * *

Hours later, Cicero steps into the bathtub. His aching muscles practically sing when he sinks into the steaming, scented water. He blows out a breath when he stretches out, but he does not feel at ease. His talk with Pontius left him with more questions than answers. Why now? Why bother telling him all this now, when it no longer matters? It’s true that he is somewhat pleased to know he wasn’t Pontius’ last choice, but he doesn’t appreciate knowing that his brother was in love with him. It just makes things _more_ complicated, not less.

The water is still warm when he gets out of the bath. Chased out, more like, by his thoughts. He does not like being left alone. The silence of the Sanctuary can never drown out the incessant chattering in his mind. But he can distract himself from it easily enough.

His motley is laid out on the bed. Freshly laundered and patched and meticulously cared for. His favorite trophy. But now that he looks at it, he feels so strange about donning it. Ever since Pontius brought up the jester, the motley, and Cicero’s manner of speaking, he’s been at odds with himself. Whenever he thinks of the man he used to be, and the life he used to live, it’s like he’s looking through someone else’s eyes. It doesn’t feel real.

Things would have been so different if Cicero had remained unchanged. If he’d only _acted_ rather than languishing in Cheydinhal for so long, perhaps the Listener would’ve been found sooner. Maybe he could’ve saved her from a handful of horrors if he’d only discovered her when they were both in Cyrodiil. He allows himself a moment to imagine Malrian, dead by his hand, and Lumen running away with him.

He shakes his head. _No._ Things happened the way they needed to. Lumen had to choose to leave Malrian, and she had to be the one to kill him.

Still, what would be different if Cicero came to Skyrim _ten_ years ago, rather than waiting?

For one, Astrid wouldn’t have sold the Dark Brotherhood out. Oh, no. Cicero doubts she’d have lived long enough to do it had he come to Skyrim in his prime. The old Cicero wouldn’t have thought twice about razing a Sanctuary if it meant preserving the authority of the Night Mother and the Listener.

The _Listener_ —

Oh, she would’ve hated him. He cannot bear the thought of a life without her by his side, and so he dismisses his daydreams with a wave of his hand and stalks to the wardrobe to dress in something— different. A pair of dark brown trousers and a plain white tunic feel like more a costume than his motley, but they will have to do. His relationship with his favored attire is too complicated right now.

He checks his appearance in the mirror before joining the others. He’s changed over the past year. The credit for his new scars and bulkier frame goes to Lumen. Who knew fighting dragons would be so beneficial to one’s figure? His arms are thick and well-formed, and his thighs sport a curve he always admired in other males. He can even see indentations of abdominal muscles, which is something sweet-roll-loving Cicero never thought he’d see.

Cicero smirks at his reflection. Talk about ego-stroking. Lumen would laugh herself sick if she caught him preening.

He hurries through the Sanctuary, following the sounds of laughter echoing through the twisting hallways. When he arrives at the overlook, he finds Arnbjorn watching the group from atop the stairs. He’d probably been heading to his forge and thought better of it when he saw a crowd. But when Cicero stands beside him and follows his gaze, he can see why he stopped. Luka, Lumen, and Pontius are down in the common area, which isn’t all that surprising. What is surprising is the way Lumen is laughing— so unrestrained and _free_.

Lumen catches sight of them, and she shouts, “Cicero! Arnbjorn! I did it!”

“Did what?” He feels rooted to the spot. Lumen’s happiness is intoxicating.

“She may have set Luka on fire,” Arnbjorn says, loud enough for those down in the common area to hear.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Luka says, waving his hand. “My robes were merely singed. No harm done.”

“Look!” She holds her hands out, and after a moment of concentration, they are wreathed in flame. The fire dances and coils around her fingers. She makes a fist, and the flames gutter out by her will. “Nothing weird happened! Well— except for setting Luka’s robe on fire. But that was when I first summoned it, and it surprised me. But now I’m getting the hang of it!”

Of course fire would be her element. “It suits you.”

Pontius approaches Lumen and holds out a hand. “May I?” Her response is a silent shrug, but that is all the permission Pontius needs to take her hand in his. “Your hands are blazing hot,” he says, his full mouth curling into a sensual smirk. “You can have a lot of fun with this spell on the battlefield _and_ in the bedroom.”

Luka decides he needs to be elsewhere rather quickly. A wise move, especially if Lumen decides to breathe fire rather than wield it. Cicero is of a mind to watch, rather than get in the middle of whatever is unfolding. The Listener can take care of herself, and — most importantly — Pontius needs to learn her boundaries. He was _never_ so bold with Alisanne.

“Magical foreplay seems like a terrible idea.” Lumen breathes a laugh and shakes her head. “I wouldn’t even know what to do.”

Pontius steps closer to her, his thumb feathering across her palm. “I wouldn’t mind giving you a demonstration.”

“Interesting,” Arnbjorn murmurs, low enough so that only Cicero may hear.

Something twists in Cicero’s gut at that flirtatious tone, followed by a nauseating wave of guilt. He is not the jealous type, and Lumen would not appreciate it if he interfered. Flirting with the Listener is not forbidden, and for her part, Lumen is taking it well. She seems to enjoy the banter. But why would Pontius tell Cicero he’d once been in love with him, only to brazenly flirt with his lover _right in front of him_ , and just a few hours later? Cicero doesn’t know what kind of game his brother is playing, but it is a dangerous one.

Lumen pulls away from Pontius. “Are you two busybodies going to come down here and have a celebratory drink with me, or what?” Her tone is light. Casual. As if whatever occurred between her and Pontius had been playful.

Perhaps that’s all it is— playing. Cicero curses himself for feeling an inkling of jealousy. “Coming, sweetness!” he croons, as he descends the stairs. “Arnbjorn and I were only waiting to see if you fried Pontius to a crisp for being so bold. We didn’t even get to place bets!”

“Really?” She laughs, draping herself in a chair at the long dining table. “What he said is _nothing_ compared to the things you’ve said to me.”

“That is different.” He takes the seat next to Lumen. “For what it’s worth, Cicero is glad you did not have command of magic in the early days of his— courtship.”

Lumen snorts. “Courtship? Is that what you call it? More like merciless teasing.”

“Details,” Cicero says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

As the evening wears away, so does Cicero’s tension. More siblings join them, and by the wee hours of the morning, Cicero is given a slight reprieve from his worries. The assassins share food and drink, and Babette entertains (and horrifies) them all with the tale of her latest contract. Lumen carts him off to bed when they are both at their limit. Cicero is not a heavy drinker, but he knows when he is intoxicated. His cheeks feel warm and his head a bit fuzzy. It’s not a sensation he particularly enjoys. But some days call for it.

They fall into bed and Lumen’s arm comes around him to hold him tight. But Cicero is unable to sleep soundly. Something just doesn’t feel right, but he can’t put his finger on it. _Is_ he jealous? It’s normal to feel a little jealousy sometimes. But he’s not sure if that’s the right word for _this_ feeling. There was just something off-putting about the way Pontius was handling his Listener— and the way he was watching her. His eyes didn’t contain the heat of lust, but the predatory gleam of a hunter.

But that can’t be right.

Cicero buries his face in his pillow. He must be losing his touch if he’s misreading signals. Perhaps Madanach’s contract is just what he needs to feel like himself again. He’d give anything just to be the cackling, murderous jester, rather than this mess of a man who’s overburdened with old memories and new fears.

* * *

_**25th of Morning Star, 4E 189** _

_I have been chosen. By some incomprehensible twist of fate, the Black Hand has named me the Night Mother's Keeper. In all honesty, I am both incredibly honored and deeply saddened. This means the end of my contracts. I'll be lucky to lift a blade again. Thankfully, Rasha has promised me one final contract before I accept my new duties._

* * *

_Cicero felt numb as he prepared for his final contract. He tried reminding himself that it was a great honor to be chosen as Keeper. Only the most trusted assassins were charged with the care of the Night Mother in the absence of a Listener. But it felt like a death blow. Not just for himself— but for the Dark Brotherhood._

_He took his time in getting dressed, seeing as it would be the last time he’d ever wear his shrouded armor. Never before had he felt such hesitation. It took him ten minutes to muster the mental fortitude to step into his leather pants, and then his boots. The leather jacket was laid out on his bed, but he only stared at it, unable to put it on. “I’m just taking my time,” he lied to himself. “I want to savor this. I want to hold on to this night.”_

_“It would seem congratulations are in order,” came a voice from behind him._

_Cicero whipped around to see Pontius leaning against the doorframe. “It would seem that way,” he said, unable to check the temper in his voice._

_Pontius ignored it, and he stepped into the room. “So what vows to Keepers take?”_

_“We’re sworn to protect the Night Mother from dangers both great and small. To preserve her, so that the Listener may once again hear her voice. And— to find the Listener.”_

_“How does one find a Listener?” he asked. “How will you know?_

_The chill of the Sanctuary was seeping into his bare skin, but he did not make a move to continue dressing. Not when he was being watched. “When the time his right— when Mother has chosen a Listener. I’ll know.”_

_“People lie. So how will you know if they are honest?”_

_“I’ll know if they are lying.”_

_“But how?” Pontius’ eyes were bright with unhidden interest. “Is there a code word?”_

_“You’re asking questions I will not answer,” Cicero said, a soft growl lacing his words. “Do not push me on this.”_

_“There’s no need to get testy. I’m only curious.” Pontius looked him over. Once. Twice. His eyes were lingering on Cicero’s exposed chest. “It seems you’ve been sworn to secrecy on a couple of things. That must make things more exciting for you. But, I wonder, did you also take vows of chastity, or am I allowed to blow you before you leave for your last contract?”_

_Cicero’s brows shot up. He’d pushed Pontius to be bolder, and his brother rose up to answer the challenge. “I have taken no such vows,” he said with a forced calm._

_“Good.”_

_Pontius crossed the room in three steps. Firm, calloused fingers grabbed Cicero by the shoulders and shoved him up against the cold, stone wall. With a knee between his legs and Pontius’ lips crashing into his own, he had little time to react— let alone think. His body knew what it wanted long before his brain bothered to catch up, and he opened his mouth to accept the sweep of Pontius’ tongue._

_They parted just enough to gasp for breath. “This is more like it,” Cicero laughed. “You’re much more interesting when you’re assertive.”_

_“Shut up,” Pontius snapped, and proceeded to silence Cicero with another bruising kiss._

_It hurt. Everywhere Pontius touched him was sure to leave a mark and a lingering ache. But Cicero couldn’t care less. His world was crashing down on his shoulders, and a hard, uncaring release was just what he needed. “You’re wasting my time,” Cicero growled as he fisted his hand in Pontius’ hair, calling an end to the foreplay when he forced his brother to his knees. Pontius needed to further instruction, and he proceeded to give Cicero the send-off he’d promised him._

_Afterwards, Cicero cleaned up and finished dressing while Pontius watched. For the first time in days, his mind felt clear. But he was not of a mind to show any gratitude. He wouldn’t want Pontius to let his guard down anytime soon. The verbal sparring was too much fun._

_“Good luck, brother.” Pontius was leaning against the wall, exactly where Cicero had been just minutes before. “I’ll be waiting for your return. I believe you owe me a favor.”_

_Cicero smirked. “We’ll see.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to get a new chapter out. Health Problems and Life happened. But I am feeling better now. This chapter is a little slow, but it’s got some important characterization. Things pick up in the next one, which is almost done! :D


	11. Throne of Bones

Lumen and Cicero arrive at Karthspire on a miserably cold day. The wind rattles the bare trees and howls through the mountains. Dunes of snow collect against the edge of the wooden palisade, and on top of the guard towers. A lone guard is perched on the tower, covered from head-to-toe in heavy furs.

The day may be cold, but not cold enough for the Forsworn guard to give her any reprieve, and so the miserable man shouts, “Ah, if it isn’t the mighty Dragonborn. What brings you here on such a lovely day?”

“Business,” she snaps. “Let us in.”

Within the shadows beneath the guard’s hood, she can see the flash of a smile. “Aye, I might. But only if you ask nicely.”

Lumen’s patience is negligible under the best circumstances, and it’s practically non-existent after hours of riding horseback in a mix of sleet and snow. But she is here on official Dark Brotherhood business, and she is forced to rein in her temper. “Let us in. _Please._ ” She spits out the word like it’s the most vile curse she’s ever uttered. “We have business with Madanach.”

The guard doesn’t respond, but the large, wooden gate rattles open.

“Perhaps we should have started with that,” Cicero mutters— only to receive an elbow to the ribs.

Once inside the gates, Lumen attempts to bribe Shadowmere into good behavior with a handful of sugar cubes. A plume of steam rises from his nostrils when he snorts at the offering. Heavy hooves stomp in the snow as if to complain about the miserable weather. But he eventually accepts the bribe after Lumen soothes him by scratching his neck.

“You spoil that beast,” Cicero says with some amusement. “What does poor Cicero have to do to get such attention? Perhaps he wants to be fed sugar and have his neck stroked.”

“I stroke other things,” Lumen says as she falls into step beside him.

Cicero hums. “This is true. But could you feed Cicero sweet rolls next time?”

“No.” She glances at him, and when she sees the face he’s making — his brown eyes wide, lips pursed — she bursts into laughter. “Stop that! We’re here on business! Be _serious_.”

“Poor Cicero is not doing anything! His sweet Listener is the one who’s cackling like a madwoman,” he says, a devious grin curling his lips. “Cicero is clearly the sane one, here.”

The two giggling assassins snap to attention when a stern-faced Forsworn guard approaches them, and motions for them to follow. They do as they are bid, walking through the empty footpaths of the usually bustling camp. Today, though, most of the residents of Karthspire are huddled in their tents and huts, and only the guards and those desperate for a privy dare to brave the cold. The guard does not lead them to Madanach’s tent, but to the edge of the camp. They come to a stop at the opening of a long, rock-lined pathway with the mouth of a cave at the end of it.

The Sacrament has definitely been performed there. Lumen can feel it calling to her, and she is urged onward by the invisible tether that links her to the unholy offering. Her legs feel unsteady as she steps ever closer, but Cicero is at her side with a reassuring hand on her back.

The cave is warm and inviting. Heated by some magical means, no doubt. Orbs of magelight float along the ceiling, defiantly bright against the darkness gathering in the unlit corridors. The Sacrament is lovingly laid out in the center of the cave. A mixture of ancient bones and a newly stolen heart are ensconced in candles. The ceremonial dagger is on the ground, and the Nightshade anointed blade glinting in the candlelight. That strange feeling building within Lumen’s chest eases when the magical tether gives one final tug and then disperses.

Madanach’s makeshift camp is nearby. Animal pelts are scattered around the dirt floor. Fat, comfortable-looking pillows surround a low table, which is laden with food and drink, and covered in stacks upon stacks of papers— reports from Madanach’s spies, most likely.

“Well, that didn’t take long,” Madanach says by way of greeting, and he gestures for the assassins to join him at the table. “Sit. We have a few things to discuss, and you can be on your way.”

Lumen is close to complaining, only because she spent hours on horseback and her aching muscles are going to bark in protest when she lowers herself to the floor. But she does as she’s bid. Eager to hear the details of this contract and see it through. “This is different,” she says, looking around.

“It’s only temporary,” comes his gruff reply. “It’s one thing for my people to know about my friendship with the Dragonborn. It’s another thing for them to see their leader performing the Black Sacrament.”

“Fair enough.”

Without warning, Madanach murmurs a spell. Static snaps in the air, followed by the sharp scent of ozone. The sensation of invisible fingers on her skin and that horrid tang of magic nearly has Lumen surging to her feet. “It’s a ward,” Madanach says, his voice surprisingly gentle in the wake of her panic. “So we’re not overheard.”

Cicero tilts his head. “You do not trust your men?”

“With my life. But I can’t risk this information. You would do well to remember that the Reach itself cannot be trusted. Not when the stone beneath our feet has ears. Even the wind has been known to betray secrets.”

The Reach is a place of mystery for the people of Skyrim. It’s one of the reasons why the Reachmen are so feared. Anyone who would make their home among the misty mountains and rolling hills of the Reach must be crazy or utterly fearless— or both. Even as someone who isn’t a native to Skyrim, she’s heard the tales. Mothers often warn their children to avoid sprawling junipers, to never disturb a ring of mushrooms, and _never_ under any circumstance, enter a bargain with a Reachman. The tales are widely regarded as scare tactics to keep children from straying too far. But Lumen wonders if there is some validity to them.

“I assume this is about Igmund,” Lumen says, her voice calm despite her shaken composure.

Madanach’s eyes glitter like shards of ice. “It is. I want him killed. Which is easy enough considering all the ways you can kill a man. However, there are Thalmor stationed in the city, and I want them killed as well.”

Lumen is immediately interested. “Go on.”

“As I told you before, Igmund refuses to give up his throne, even though you _so rudely_ handed Markarth to the Stormcloaks. Thanks to Thongvor, Igmund has been steadily losing the support of his people. But even though he lacks that, he’s got the support of the Thalmor. The people are afraid to speak against him. So I need you to take out the Thalmor _and_ kill Igmund. But you need to make it look like the Thalmor turned on him, which will strain relations between the Dominion and the Empire.”

“But won’t it look suspicious if all the Thalmor are dead, too?”

“I don't know. Will it?" He grins maliciously. “Figure it out. You’re the assassin, not I.”

Lumen sighs, her mind already turning over the logistics of the hit. “So what can you tell me about Igmund and these Thalmor? I need all the information I can get.”

“I’ll give you the notes I’ve compiled. However, I recently discovered the Justiciar has been harassing the priestesses at the Temple of Dibella. He wants them to bring in an acolyte of the elven persuasion. Altmer, preferably. But he’s desperate enough to settle for a Bosmer. So there’s your in.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” she says, her tone utterly flat. “And his— _evening company_ has to be a Dibellan Priestess?”

“There’s no shame in men and women of import communing with the priestesses. It’s a common practice.”

“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve had to debase myself to complete a contract.”

“Cicero is not sure about this…” He instinctively reaches for Lumen.

She grabs his hand. “I won’t be alone,” she says, caressing his cheek. “You’ll be with me.”

His brow wrinkles. “There are no male priestesses, Listener.”

“This is true. But I think with a little kohl around your eyes and some red on your lips, you could pass as a lovely lady.” When Cicero’s eyes meet hers, she cannot help but smile. “I’m a new acolyte, you see, and I’ll need to be chaperoned, as I will be quite nervous about my first time.”

A manic giggle peals through the air and Cicero lunges at her, hugging her fiercely. “Oh, Listener! This will be so much fun! May Cicero borrow a pair of your lacy underthings, as well?”

Madanach makes a noise that is something between a laugh and a groan. “I would hope you’re not planning to take the ruse _that_ far. You only need to get close enough to stab the bastard.”

“You may,” Lumen whispers, somewhat distracted by the mental image of Cicero in frilly undergarments. “Why haven’t we thought of this before?”

“There are things I really _do not_ need to know about you two.” Madanach grimaces. “And while we’re on the subject— don’t do anything weird while you’re working for me. It’s too damn risky! And I realize that’s probably your kink, but if you screw up my contract because you were fooling around, I will feed you to a hagraven.

Cicero straightens up. He squares his shoulders when he faces Madanach. “Cicero and the Listener take their jobs very seriously! We would never do anything to compromise a contract!”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he sighs, clearly wanting to be far away from the manic jester and his lover. “So, Listener, do you need any more information from me?”

Lumen doesn’t know how she’s going to deal with the Thalmor, kill the jarl, and make it all look like a Thalmor plot to take over the city. Even so— this will be fun. “Oh, I think I have everything I need.”

“Good.” The wards vanish with a wave of his hand. “I’ll give you half your payment today. You get the rest when the deed is done.”

Madanach tosses a coin purse on the table between them. It could fit in Lumen’s palm, and she opens her mouth to complain about how _small_ it is, and how that couldn’t possibly be _half_ the payment for killing a bloody Jarl. But the make of the purse halts her complaints. She smoothes her fingers over the luxurious black velvet, and peers inside.

Glittering gems of various shapes, cuts and colors sparkle in the dim light. They would bring in a small fortune when sold. If the Forsworn have this kind of wealth, then what in the Void are they doing living out in the wild? They could probably _buy_ Markarth if they wished.

Rather than ask questions Madanach won’t answer, Lumen says, “We’ll return when the contract is completed.” She then motions for Cicero to follow her, and they leave the warmth of the cave.

* * *

“Cicero does not like this plan.” The Keeper is hot on her heels as Lumen breezes into the Sanctuary. “It is too dangerous. Please reconsider, Listener.”

“I thought we’d come to an agreement,” she sighs, leaving her muddy boots in the foyer before stepping into the overlook where the Night Mother rests. The weather is unseasonably cold, even so far north, and her fingers and toes are achingly numb.

“I did not wish to argue the point in front of a client,” Cicero snaps, struggling to remove his boots and follow Lumen at the same time. “It was one thing when you dressed like a tavern wench to fool that Blackthorn bastard— but this? This is too dangerous. We cannot risk you.”

A ragged sigh escapes her. “If we can think of a better plan, then we’ll do it. But there’s only one way into Understone Keep, and very few are let in after hours. No one will look twice at a Dibellan priestess.” She turns to face Cicero, and her indignant anger fades at the worry in his eyes. “We’ve done riskier things, and I would know why you’re so upset about this.”

“Cicero does not know,” he admits, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of that truth. “But if something happened to you—”

“Nothing will happen because _you_ will be with me.” Lumen grabs his hand. “Come on. Let’s call for the others and figure out a plan. We’ll be fine, and we will be careful.”

He holds onto her hand like it’s a lifeline, and his feet remain rooted to the spot. “Cicero is sorry. He does not know why he’s so worried. He cannot think of any reason why this would go wrong, and at the same time, he can think of a million. Something feels— wrong. The hunters were dogging our steps a few weeks ago, but there’s not been a whisper. Where have they gone? What are they planning? Cicero would prefer to lay low until we know something. _Anything_ could go wrong during this contract. This Thalmor could be one of many stationed in the city. Madanach could’ve unknowingly sent us into a trap!”

Lumen lays her hand upon his cheek, hoping to quiet his mounting anxiety. “Cicero.” Her voice is feather light. “Trust your family, and trust me. We will not be walking blindly into Markarth. We’ll have a solid plan before the night is through, I promise.”

He leans into her touch, his rapid breaths slowing. “Cicero is sorry. He knows you hate it when he gets like this.”

“Only because I hate to see you so upset.” She looks him over, wondering why he chose to wear his armor rather than his motley. But she knows such questions would be deflected. Something is bothering him, and it has nothing to do with the Thalmor hunters. Perhaps he will confide in her later, but she’ll not get anything out of him now. Not with their family fast approaching to welcome them home. “Come,” she says, tugging on his hand. “We have work to do.”

Cicero shadows her as they descend the stairs to meet their gathering siblings. The assassins are eager to hear about their newest contract, and they quickly take their seats at the table. Even the bleary-eyed vampires awoke from their daytime slumber for the meeting. So Lumen tells them of Madanach’s plan— to kill the Jarl, pin his death on the Thalmor, and kill them as well. Then, to add to the excitement filling the room, she tosses the velvet coin purse on the table. The gems spill out across the wood and sparkle in the firelight.

“I have a contact in the Thieves Guild who will pay us a premium for these,” Nazir says, inspecting a large, glittering sapphire. “They’d be difficult to sell otherwise.”

The room fills with the murmur of quiet conversation as the assassins inspect their payment, but Babette is the only one not entranced by the jewels. Her infernal eyes are on Lumen, and when she meets her gaze, the vampire asks, “How are you going to get inside the Keep? There’s only one way in, and it’s well-guarded.”

It’s a leading question if there ever was one. Lumen wonders if the little vampire overheard the argument with Cicero. “The Thalmor Justiciar has need of a Dibellan Priestess, and seeing as I’m the only female elf here, I will disguise myself as one. The guards won’t think twice about letting me in.”

“I’m not comfortable with you offering yourself up as bait,” Arnbjorn growls.

“Finally!” Cicero heaves an exasperated breath. “Someone is _finally_ on poor Cicero’s side!”

Lumen opens her mouth to argue, but Pontius beats her to it. “Normally I would agree,” the Imperial says, drawing glares from both Cicero and Arnbjorn. “But the priestesses are highly respected for their work. If the Justiciar is a faithful follower of Dibella, he’d know better than to harm one.”

Arnbjorn’s jaw tightens. “I’m not willing to trust a wanting man’s faith in anything. The Listener is strong, and a skilled fighter, but even the best warriors can be caught unawares.”

Luka clears his throat. “Correct me if I am wrong, but aren’t these priestesses— um— aren’t they prostitutes?”

“Prostitutes get paid,” Lumen comments. “The priestesses do not.”

“It’s not just about sex,” Pontius says, somewhat irritated. “The priestesses serve many purposes. They do teach the Dibellan arts, yes, but they don’t sleep with their patrons as much as people think.”

Feeling only a little ashamed of her rude comment, Lumen takes a seat, her attention on Pontius. “The Justiciar specifically requested an elven priestess. So I just assumed…”

“Probably because he’s more comfortable with elves. Think about it. He probably lived in Alinor all his life, and now he’s here, in a strange land full of strangers who hate him— with reason. But you can see how lonely that would be.” Pontius gives her a cursory glance and smirks. “Then, _you_ come in, and you’re familiar and beautiful and sweet, and maybe all he wants is someone to talk to. Maybe someone to hold him for a little while. That’s easy enough, isn’t it? And when he’s dropped his guard, and you’re able to get close enough, you stab him in the throat.”

“I can easily procure a robe similar to what the priestesses wear,” Eola chimes in. “And I know we’ve got an Amulet of Dibella somewhere. Sithis, I probably have more than one. Cyril is like a magpie. He sees something shiny, and he brings it home.”

Lumen can’t help but grin at the flat look Cyril is giving Eola. “We’ll need two. Cicero is going to be disguised as a priestess as well.”

Eola nods. “Give me a day, and I’ll have everything you need.”

“You’re going with her?” Arnbjorn looks to Cicero. “Dressed as a— priestess?”

“I am.” Cicero folds his arms across his chest. “But that doesn’t mean Cicero is in favor of his plan. It just means we don’t have a better option. It will still be risky, even with Cicero there.”

“I have complete faith in your ability to protect me,” Lumen says, hoping to stop the argument before it begins. “It will be fine.”

Arnbjorn looks doubtful, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Cicero, however, does not.

“Cicero would say his sweet Listener’s faith is sorely misplaced,” he says, his voice quivering with emotion.

An awkward tension fills the room. Rather than respond, Lumen turns her attention to the others gathered there. “So we know how Cicero and I are getting in, but this job is too big for two assassins, so that’s where the rest of you come in.”

A solid plan forms as the night wears on. Cicero does not speak again. The family as a while seems thrilled with the prospect of killing a Jarl and framing it on the Thalmor, and they’re in good spirits when the meeting concludes. Arnbjorn heads to his forge, while the vampires return to their beds. Cicero slinks off to their bedroom, his mood darker than before, and Lumen follows him with a sense of impending doom.

She leans against the door as it closes, and she does not move. Cicero heaves a sigh as he begins to remove his shrouded leather armor.

“Cicero should probably apologize,” he grumbles as he tosses his belt over the back of a chair.

“You are worried for my safety,” Lumen says thickly. “You _never_ have to apologize for loving me.”

He casts a grateful look in her direction but quickly turns away. “Cicero knows he is trying your patience with his constant worrying.” He swallows audibly, struggling with the words. “He is driving himself mad, as well.”

Lumen hates to see him like this; the laughter stolen away, and his shoulders weighed down with regret. “Help me understand, then. Tell me everything. I want to help, but I can’t help if I don’t know the whole story.”

“Cicero cannot.” The leather jacket slips from his arms, and he gently lays it on the back of a chair, along with his gloves. He sits on the edge of the bed, suddenly weary. “There is just a creeping feeling of dread that has taken hold, and it will not abate. Something is wrong. Cicero can sense it. His every instinct is telling him that danger is near, but he does not know what that danger is.”

“Is it this contract?” she asks, pushing away from the door to sit next to him. “You’ve never been so vocal about me acting as bait in the past. Thalmor or no, the danger has always been the same.”

“Cicero is never in favor of this type of plan, but he understands the necessity of it.” He presses his shoulder against hers, seeking affection, but needing distance at the same time. “No. Truly, it is not this contract. Cicero has been on edge for some time now.”

She is uncertain of what to say. If she doesn't know what is troubling him, then she cannot help him. Even if she did know, she doubts she could provide a solution. Whatever this is, it is something Cicero will have to work through. “I noticed you did not wear your motley,” Lumen says at length. “Which isn’t odd considering how cold it is, but what is strange is that you did not wear your hat. You always wear your hat. I’m surprised the thing isn’t permanently adhered to your head.”

“Ah, _that_. It is— complicated.”

“I will listen if you wish to talk about it.”

His lips thin. “It is Pontius,” he says reluctantly. “He has questioned me about it, and he looks at me oddly when I wear it. Cicero thought to wear it today, but— it does not comfort me as it once did.” Cicero falls quiet. But Lumen does not speak, fearing she might interrupt whatever he’s working through. “I do not know what to make of him. I am glad to see my brother alive and well, but things were easier when I thought he was dead.”

Lumen drapes her arm across his shoulders. “You are being forced to face your past. It isn’t an easy thing.”

“I believe he wants things to go back to the way they were,” Cicero says without prompting.

“Ah, so you two _did_ talk.”

“We did.”

Lumen nearly cringes at the accusatory note in his voice. “I wouldn’t have pushed if I’d known it would cause you so much pain. I thought it would help.”

“You had Cicero’s best interests at heart. Your intentions were good, sweet Lumen.”

“The path to Oblivion is paved with good intentions,” she says bitterly.

Cicero smiles at her, but it does not meet his eyes. “When Pontius returned to us, I thought him weak because he ran. But now, Cicero wonders if _he_ is the one who is weak. I hid in the Sanctuary, too terrified of the world beyond. When I think back on that time, it feels like a dream. It’s foggy, and I cannot grasp any memories. I only remember the fall, and then I remember the day I decided to leave and come to Skyrim. Everything in between feels like a fever-dream.”

“You are not weak,” Lumen says quickly. Cicero may be guilty of many things, but she would never call him weak. Though she has often wondered about his time alone in Cheydinhal, she’s not asked for more information than he’s willing to give. Sometimes she wonders if his madness had come from the Night Mother— if she needed him to become her dedicated lunatic in order for the Dark Brotherhood to survive. Strange though he may be, he is not mad. Not entirely. It comes in brief waves, followed by clear, cunning lucidity.

“Cicero is tired,” he whispers, flinching as if he is admitting to a grievous sin. “But Cicero does not wish to be alone.”

Lumen presses a kiss to his temple. “Sleep, then,” she says, hoping to soothe him. “I will stay with you.”

* * *

Cicero’s usual high spirits return in the following days. And he is cheered into a nearly manic state of elation when Eola delivers their disguises. Eola had not needed further instruction when Lumen told her Cicero was to be a priestess as well, and so along with robes and amulets, she provides them with cosmetics and all the necessary materials to turn a male into a passable female.

Cicero admires his reflection in a full-length mirror. A padded brassiere provides the illusion of breasts that are proportionate to his frame. His waist is accented by a — what did Eola call it? — a cincher. It is similar to a corset, but not as bulky or uncomfortable. But it gives Cicero the illusion of feminine curves. He pulls the thin, linen robe over his head, and turns to face Lumen.

“Well? How does Cicero look?”

Finding the words is difficult. Lumen doesn't know where Eola acquired such items, but she could _kiss_ her. Cicero’s body looks flawlessly female. The makeup on his face is expertly applied to soften his sharp features, kohl lines his eyes, and a red stain colors his lips.

“You look beautiful,” she says, her voice a touch _too_ breathless. She likes women just as much as she likes men. It is only by chance that her current lovers are male. But this? She doesn't quite know how to reconcile how she feels— only that she likes what she sees.

“Oh?” His lips pull to one side. “It has been a long time since someone told Cicero he was beautiful.”

“Should I leave?” Eola fans herself and casts a mocking grin in Lumen’s direction. “It’s getting a little hot in here.”

“I— I mean you look like a priestess. I doubt the Justiciar will have any suspicions.” It’s unbecoming for the Listener to behave so foolishly. But she knows she’s blushing all the way up to her ears. Luckily, a knock on the door saves Lumen from continuing to make an ass of herself.

“Are you ready?” calls Luka’s voice. “We’re dying of curiosity.”

“No, ‘we’ are not,” Arnbjorn grouses.

“They’re both decent,” Eola says, still grinning at Lumen. “Come on in.”

Lumen fusses with her robe, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the thin, form-hugging linen. The robe is made to cling to every curve, and when one walks, it flows across the body like water. While her shrouded armor may be form-fitting, it serves a _purpose_. She supposes these robes serve a purpose as well, but it’s not a purpose she’s comfortable with. Lumen has never shied away from her sexual desires, but she does not wave her sexuality around for all to see— and she’s not fond of showing off her body.

As with most things, it all cycles back to Malrian. He would dress his little _pet_ in Altmeri fashion, which left very little to the imagination. She always hated the feeling of his eyes raking across her skin. Even now, she cannot shake the feeling of phantom eyes, and she prefers to dress in men's clothing when she’s not wearing armor.

Arnbjorn’s face is unreadable, but he nods at her. It is his subtle way of telling her he approves of her disguise. Luka, meanwhile, wolf-whistles at her and Cicero, which does lighten the mood somewhat. And it is a welcome distraction because Pontius’ gaze is far too heated, and is lingering longer than it ought to. If it didn't violate a tenet, Lumen would Shout him into Oblivion for staring.

"What are you looking at?" she snarls.

“I'm just wondering if you're able to wear your armor beneath those robes,” Pontius says, his eyes slipping down her form. "They look thin."

“No.” She distracts herself from her irritation by fidgeting with her belt. “The material is too thin. So one of you will have to carry our armor for us. We’ll change once we’ve dealt with the Justiciar.”

“With any luck, armor won’t be necessary,” Luka says. “We should be able to get in, do what we need to do, and get out undetected.”

“What is the plan on getting us into the city?” Cicero asks while fluffing his hair.

“You’ll be escorted in,” Eola says, an Amulet of Dibella swinging from her hand. “Cyril and I have looked into how priestesses move from one temple to another. They never leave unless they are on a pilgrimage, and they travel with guards who have sworn themselves to the service of Dibella. I have disguises for your ‘guards’ as well. Just robes. But much thicker than what you and Lumen are wearing.”

“Why can’t I have one of the thicker robes?” Lumen whines. “I didn’t realize how thin and clingy the priestesses robes are.”

Eola offers her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, Listener. Those robes are meant to show off the beauty of the female form.”

Lumen snorts in irritation. “What about the beauty of the male form?”

“I honestly have no idea.” Eola passes out robes and amulets to the others. “It doesn’t make sense for the temples only to have female priestesses. But I don't make the rules.”

“Do not worry, sweet Lumen.” Cicero loops his arm around hers. “Cicero will be with you.”

“As will we,” Arnbjorn says. “I know you’re uncomfortable. But you don’t have to wear that thing forever. You’ll be back into your armor before you know it.”

Lumen sighs. “Thanks,” she says weakly.

“Are we traveling in these robes?” Pontius takes his disguise from Eola, draping the robe over his arm. 

“Yeah,” Lumen says. “Eola has contacts in Markarth who would have housed us while we changed, but I didn't want to involve anyone outside of the Brotherhood. So we will have to wear our disguises all the way there. Bandits will be an issue until we’re in the Reach. But then we'll have the protection of the Forsworn and it should be an easy journey.”

“You can keep those robes if you want. I don’t need them back. Cyril has enough junk.”

Lumen casts a look around the room. “Why do you have so many on hand?” 

“Who doesn’t like a little ‘dirty priest’ roleplay?” Eola says with a shrug. “Don’t worry, though. We haven’t done anything in those robes. Those were extras in case the others were, uh— damaged.”

“Oh, this is giving Cicero ideas...”

Arnbjorn sneers. “We need to leave soon if we hope to make it to Markarth by sundown.” He ushers Luka and Pontius from the room, grumbling all the way. “Go get ready. No lollygagging. We’re on a strict time limit.”

Eola watches them leave, smirking. But the mirth fades from her face when she turns her attention back to Lumen. “I _could_ disguise myself as an elf. Cyril could cast a glamor—”

“I know he could,” Lumen says quickly. “But there’s a chance the Justiciar could see through the glamor. It’s a chance I’m not willing to take. Not only would it risk our contract, but it would risk you as well. I’ll not put my siblings in any unnecessary danger if I can help it.”

“I would give my life for the Brotherhood and for you, Listener.”

“I know.” Lumen offers her a tight smile. “But the only people dying tonight are the Thalmor and Jarl Igmund. Now go get ready, and stop fretting.”

Eola, thankfully, does as she is bid. Lumen can feel Cicero’s gaze on her, but he is withholding his objections to the plan. He’s already voiced them. There’s no reason to have the same argument twice.

“Come, Listener,” he says, shaking her from her brooding. “Let’s go kill a Jarl."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd actually meant for the assassination plot to happen in this chapter, but it was getting long and I think breaking it up was for the best. It also means that the next chapter is half written and hopefully I will finish it soon! I'm reaaaaally pumped for the next chapter. I have plans. Evil plans.


	12. Feral Hearts

_**21st of Sun's Dusk, 4E 188** _

_So much has happened since my last entry. After Garnag and Andronica left for Bravil, we stopped receiving communications from the city. We feared the worst. This morning, those fears were confirmed, when Garnag returned alone, transporting a most precious cargo - the great stone coffin of the Night Mother herself._

_The story Garnag told could curl the blood of even the most hardened of Sithis' servants. The crypt of the Night Mother, raided. Dearest sister Andronica, cut to pieces. And the Listener herself, the most honored Alisanne Dupre, burned alive in a storm of mage fire._

_Garnag, though gravely injured (he will most certainly lose his right eye), managed to fend off the attackers, and transport the Night Mother's coffin safely out of the city. He has been on the road, making his way back here, since that tragic night._

* * *

_Cicero’s hands were shaking like brittle leaves._

_Garnag returned home, alone, and with the Night Mother in tow. Reeking of fire, he smelled like a brutal death. Burned meat. Scorched hair and fingernails. Silent screams were woven into the scents that clung to his armor._

_It was Bruma all over again, and Cicero couldn’t stop shaking._

_The explosions that set off that horrible chain of events still echoed in his ears. He’ll never forget the plumes of fire that swept through the hallways of their underground home. He'll never forget the screams of his brothers and sisters as they burned alive._

_He’ll never forget. He’ll never heal._

_If only he had someone to talk to. Someone who could understand. But assassins don’t share these things. Bruma’s old Speaker used to see emotion as a weakness. But it was a rare man who was born with such an unfeeling coldness in his heart. Cicero wanted to be like that. Life would be so much easier if he could be like that. He was so tired of being lonely._

_Loneliness was an odd companion. It was a killer. It crept up on him, quite and still, and rather than plunging a blade into his heart, it stroked fingers down his neck and planted lies in his heart. It leached the light from every bright moment, and it crushed him until he was breaking under the unbelievable weight of what it was to be truly alone._

_The Sanctuary was still full of people. Less than when he came, but still full. But the Listener was dead and the Night Mother was silenced, and they could all see the cracks forming in their familial bonds. It was only a matter of time before everything fell apart._

_The Sanctuary was full, and Cicero never felt more alone._

* * *

A snowstorm rolls in over the course of the evening, delaying their departure to Markarth. The Listener is in a frenzy. She could Shout the weather away— but Shouting all the way from Dawnstar to Markarth isn’t exactly ideal for a group of assassins looking to assassinate a jarl. So they are stuck for the time being, and as a result, Lumen has nearly worn a rut in the hallway from all her pacing.

“Sweetness, please.” He grabs her arm, stopping her in her tracks. “Let Cicero help you. Let him distract you from this…” He grasps for the right words— words that won’t upset her further, but falls short.

“Madness?” she supplies.

“That was not the word Cicero wanted to use. But— yes.” He wants to tell her that he understands. He knows what it’s like to be trapped inside your own home. But that is not a conversation he wants to have today. “We’re stuck here, so maybe we should make the best of it? We could play cards, or train, or— oh! I know! Cicero could play the lute—”

“Sithis, _no_. You abuse that poor instrument.”

“How dare you!” That earns him a smile, at least. So he continues. “Fine, fine. It’s clear you do not appreciate Cicero’s sublime musical talents.”

“You are quite talented. But it’s clear you weren’t born to be a bard,” she says, her smile growing because she knows how much that comment will get under his skin.

“Bards are overrated,” he sniffs, resting his hands on his hips. “And do not get Cicero started on the local bards and their caterwauling. They wouldn’t be able to find the proper key if it slapped them in the face.”

Lumen’s hand covers her mouth, hiding her laugh. It’s such an oddly demure gesture for her, but she is a creature of contradictions. Cicero doubts she’s aware of what she’s done, and he’ll not mention it. It harkens back to the time before— when she was at the mercy of her Thalmor master. Trained to act like a lady, and treated worse than any dog. The thought makes him sick. He’d kill the Altmer bastard all over again if he could.

“Thanks.” She runs a hand through her hair and sighs. “I suppose I was losing my mind a little. I—” Her hand falls to her side. “I feel trapped.”

“I know. But you are not trapped, and it will not snow forever.” His arms encircle her waist, and he looks up to see her smiling down at him. “The weather may have halted our travels, but it is not so bad that we cannot step outside. Perhaps some fresh air would help?”

“But it’s so cold.”

“Yes, but allowing Cicero to warm you up afterward is half the fun. So what do you say?”

“Oh, all right.” Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she pulls away. “But you should probably put on some warmer clothes.”

Cicero looks down at the thin shirt and trousers he threw on that morning. “Ah, probably.”

“Go on. I’ll fetch our cloaks and meet you in the foyer.” Turning to walk down the hall, she throws a glance over her shoulder and says, “and don’t take forever! We’re not going to a ball; we’re going to play in the snow. You don’t have to fuss.”

“Cicero never fusses!”

“You always fuss,” she calls back, her footsteps fading as she walks away.

Smirking to himself, he steps into their bedroom to change. As per the Listener’s request, Cicero doesn’t fuss— too much. He can’t help it if he holds himself to high standards. And there is some part of him that fears Lumen will lose interest if he doesn’t look his best. He is a human of mid-age and she an elf just barely into adulthood. If Cicero starts to show too much age or begins to take less care of himself, would she look to younger lovers?

_No._ No, of course not. That’s silly. Lumen has never given him any indication that she would prefer someone younger— or prettier. She likes him. _Loves_ him. Every part of him; the jester, the killer, and the man.

With that in mind, he slips into his motley, which has sat folded up and unused for too long. Pontius’ line of questioning made him think too much about why he wears the motley. It doesn't matter why. Not when the Listener likes the way he looks in it.

Cicero steps out into the hallway, smoothing the wrinkles from his velvet overcoat, and runs smack into the very person he’d been hoping to avoid.

“S— Sorry!” Pontius stammers as he stumbles backward.

“It’s all right.” Cicero grabs his hat before it falls to the floor, but he does not set it back in place. Instead, he holds onto it for comfort, and out of the dim hope that Pontius doesn’t wish to speak of the past. “Are you okay, brother?”

“Fine. Fine.” He waves his hand in the air. “I did want to see you, though. Are you busy?”

“Cicero is on his way to meet the Listener, but he can spare a moment for you,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “What do you need?”

“The Listener,” he says, his voice oddly hollow. “I’d rather not keep you if—”

“Just say what you need to say,” Cicero snaps, his patience — which is admittedly limited with Pontius — at an end.

Pontius levels him with a glare, his green eyes glittering in the dim torchlit hall. “I need to know if it was real.” he says, his voice hard. “What we had. Did it mean anything to you?”

“This again…” Cicero pinches the bridge of his nose. “Haven’t we been over this already?”

“Not this particular aspect, no. And I need to know.” He turns away, then. Unable to meet his gaze. “Please. I need this.”

In all these years Cicero has never questioned himself. Not once. He knows who he is, and the others accept it. But now — since Pontius — he's questioning his every move. His every word. “Shouldn't I be asking you that? You left. I stayed.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” The words come out in a broken whisper.

“If it mattered that much, you could have returned at some point. I was only there for a _decade._ ” Keeping the anger from his voice is difficult in this moment. It’s nearly impossible to keep from shouting. The pain he buried long ago is brought to the surface, and flaying him raw.

“I shouldn’t have brought this up. It was just on my mind and I—” Pontius sighs. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing. Cicero has moved on, and so should you.”

“I thought I had. But being here with you— it’s not that easy. I don’t know if I _can_ move on.”

“You have to,” Cicero says firmly. “Everything is different now. Including Cicero.”

“Right.” Anger flashes in Pontius’ eyes and his voice hardens into something cold. Cruel. “You're fucking the Listener now. There’s no room for a lowly initiate in your bed.”

“Watch yourself,” he says through his teeth. It would be well within Cicero’s right as Keeper to kill him for that comment, but he doesn’t have a weapon within reach, and he’d rather not use his bare hands.

Pontius takes a deep breath, and the rage simmering behind his eyes withers to ashes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is different now, I know. And I thought it would be fine. I thought I’d moved on. But seeing you again changed everything. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed you until then.” He dares to meet his eyes. “I miss you still.”

“I am right here, Pontius. You may speak to me whenever you wish.”

“No,” he says, forcing out a pained laugh. “You don’t get it. You never _got_ it.” Pontius takes a tentative step forward, and then another, until he is pushing Cicero against the wall. “I miss your touch. Your taste.”

That admission has Cicero’s feet pinned to the floor, just as Pontius has him pinned to the wall. He isn’t sure how to handle this. There isn’t a way out that doesn’t involve hurting Pontius. He opens his mouth to speak — to tell him to leave — but words fail him when Pontius presses his body closer, and slants his mouth over Cicero’s. In his mind, he was reeling; he was pushing Pontius away and running to meet Lumen. But he is rooted in place, encapsulated in Pontius’ warmth, and he couldn’t help but respond in kind— and he instantly regrets it because the pull of his lips and the slide of his tongue feels so heartbreakingly familiar. Like coming home after a long journey.

It is wrong. Pontius shouldn’t feel like this. He left. He _abandoned_ Cicero. Left him to rot.

Cicero pushes him away. “Stop,” he gasps. “This will not help. It solves nothing. It will only make things worse.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing.” Stumbling away from the wall, he walks away from Pontius and doesn’t bother looking back. Lumen is waiting for him. _His_ Lumen who loves him and has never abandoned him. He will not make her wait any longer.

* * *

_Silence came naturally to Lumen. It was no different than learning to walk after learning how to crawl. Her footsteps were softer than shadow, and her breath was silent as a midwinter's night. There was a sense of power in watching and not being watched in turn, and a sense of life-giving rebellion in sneaking around Malrian’s manor against his orders— and without his knowledge._

_It was the 19th of Sun’s Dusk. The day was gray, cold, and bleak. Malrian sent her to bed early, as he often did when he had important visitors coming. Lumen intended to obey him. She wanted to slip into bed to sleep off the lethargic side-effects of a quiet day. But her master sent the servants away, too— and that was enough to pique her interest. A wave of curiosity swept away the sedating cobwebs of inactivity and had Lumen listening at her door, poised to move as soon as she heard the voices of Malrian’s officers in the foyer._

_She’d listened in on their meetings before, and most of their conversations were as bland as sack flour. But this was the first time Malrian sent the servants away. Tonight she might overhear something worthwhile. A bit of news to remind her about the world existing beyond Malrian’s walls._

_The distinct thump of doors closing had Lumen on her feet, making her way through the moonlit corridors of Malrian’s home. Wrapped in darkness, and silent as death, she tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs, and stood just beyond the thick, cherrywood doors of Malrian’s study. The voices within were muffled, but the officers made no attempt to whisper. There were no servants to overhear them, and as far as Malrian knew, she’s upstairs, tucked in her bed._

_“—and what of the Listener?” Her master’s voice. “Was she there?”_

_“She was there, just like he said she would be,” an officer said. “We burned her along with her thugs and their precious relics.”_

_“Ah, it seems like the traitor’s information was good after all.” The pleasure in his voice sent a nauseating shiver down her spine. “Excellent.”_

_“It was,” the officer said, his voice wary. Guarded. “His information has checked out, thus far. The true test will be when he gives us the location of the Sanctuary.”_

_“He is holding out for more gold. He got cocky after Bruma was destroyed—” His voice was fuller. Closer._

_Lumen darted away from the door and slipped up the stairs swiftly— but not silently. Malrian and the others did not hear, not when they are talking, lauding their victory, and pushing doors open. She was back in her bedroom in an instant. Sat upon her bed, looking out the window into the dark, still night._

_A snow-kissed wind wove its way through a field of dormant grass. It was calm. Quiet. But somewhere a city was burning, and people were dying. They suffered for something they loved enough to bleed for. They died for something they believed in. She wondered who or what could inspire such love and devotion. She didn’t know, but the thought had her heart racing. Pressing shivering hands into the coverlet, she said a silent prayer for Malrian’s victims, invoking any god that would listen._

You can have vengeance at my hands. You can have my soul and all that I am. I only ask that I wield the blade.

_Lumen forgot about her promise until years later. Until she was a loyal devotee of the Night Mother and Sithis. Her wish had been granted, and Malrian’s blood covered her hands. It was then she wondered if the Night Mother knew what would befall her children. If she heard Lumen’s prayer, did she also know about the Thalmor plot to kill her Listener? Did she know about Astrid’s deception? Did she know how her children would suffer and fall, over and over again, and do nothing to stop it?_

_How many children had to bleed to earn her love?_

* * *

Night falls across the Reach in a blanket of clouds and fitful moonlight. A light dusting of snow sticks to the branches of the gnarled juniper trees but melts upon touching the ground. The air smells of midnight; of rich moss and wet stone. In the distance, Markarth glows like a beacon, the city lit by dozens of bright, gas lanterns.

Markarth is a notoriously difficult city to infiltrate, and Understone Keep is a fortress. Eola made their lives considerably easier when she provided them with not only disguises, but a key to the Hall of The Dead— and as luck would have it, the Hall is connected to the Keep. So the assassins have their way in if their disguises fail.

They have yet to make a move, however.

From her vantage point atop a grassy hill, Lumen can see the city of Markarth glowing in the distance. Gaining access to the city will be the easy part, but infiltrating the Keep is another story.

“Quit brooding, tidbit,” Arnbjorn says. “You’re making everyone nervous.”

Lumen turns away from the city to face her companions. “Sorry,” she says to the group as a whole. “I’m not feeling terribly confident about this hit— and it’s not that I don’t have faith in you all. I do. But I feel like we’re going in blind. We don’t know the layout. We don’t know the guard rotations. There’s a lot that we just _don’t_ know, and I’m not willing to risk my family to further Madanach’s political agenda.”

“So let’s find out,” Luka chirps. “You seem to have forgotten that I can maintain an invisibility spell for a very long time. It’s why I was recruited, right?”

“That’s right,” she says, knowing where he’s going with this, but not liking the direction. “But I can’t ask you to do something so dangerous.”

She’s favoring him. He knows it. They all know it. But Luka smiles and says, “you aren’t asking; I’m offering. I’ll go into the city, sneak into the Keep, find out everything we need to know, and then meet up with you here. It’ll be easy.”

“I don’t want you going alone.”

“I would prefer to be on my own.” He glances around nervously. “No offense meant but— another person would just be a liability.”

“Fine.” Lumen hates the thought of sending him into the city alone, but she trusts Luka with her life— and she will have to trust him with this. “How much time do you need?”

“I don’t expect this to take any longer than three hours. Maybe four if I have to be extra cautious.” He slings a pack of supplies over his shoulder, and adds, “if it takes five hours it probably means I’m dead.”

“Luka…”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“You’d better go before I change my mind.”

“All right.” Luka grins at her. “Don’t worry, Miss Lumen. I’ve done this a million times. Well— okay, so I’ve never snuck into a Keep before, but I’ve been in and out of just about every Hall of the Dead in Skyrim. Arkay never noticed me. The guards won’t either.”

“I know,” she says, but that knowledge does little to ease her worries. “I have faith in you.”

Lumen watches Luka make his way down the small footpath that leads to the main road. Her eyes remain riveted to his blond head until it vanishes around a bend. It doesn’t feel right to send him off on his own like that. But she’s never been content to send her assassins on missions alone. There is safety in numbers. While an extra person often increases the odds of discovery, it also increases the odds of survival.

“Do not worry, sweetness. Luka will be fine.” Cicero lays a gentle hand on her shoulder, guiding her toward their small, hidden campsite. “Come. Sit with Cicero. It is a nice evening, yes? We may as well make the best of it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she says, allowing herself to be lead.

They slip behind a large, gnarled juniper to see Arnbjorn building a fire, and Pontius producing field rations from his pack, along with numerous bottles of alcohol. Wolf pelts are placed around the fire to provide cushioning from the stiff, frozen grass.

Sitting on a warm pelt, Lumen accepts her rations from Pontius. “Thank you,” she says, her gaze landing on a familiar, squat bottle glistening in the firelight. “Is that Colovian brandy?”

“That it is,” he says, offering her a cocky grin. “Would you like some?”

“Eat first,” Arnbjorn says, more of an order than a suggestion. “We may not be killing Igmund tonight, but that doesn’t mean we should drop our guard.”

“I trust the Listener to make good decisions,” Pontius says as he passes a handful of rations to Arnbjorn, along with a bottle of mead. “Don’t you?”

“I trust her with my life. I just don’t trust her around brandy.” Arnbjorn takes the offered bottle, squinting at the label.

Before he has a chance to decipher the text in the dim firelight, Pontius says, “It’s from a small meadery in Bruma.”

Lumen quietly eats her rations. A meal of dried venison and bread isn’t the most exciting dinner, but it settles her stomach. There’s something _off_ here. She doesn’t care about Igmund, or Markarth, or the civil war. And while she is concerned for Luka’s safety, she also trusts him to avoid conflict. If he is caught, he’ll escape. She knows it. So _why_ is she so unsettled?

“A Septim for your thoughts?” Cicero settles down beside her. “You are awfully quiet.”

“I’m just—” she grasps for the right words and fails. So she settles on a half-truth. “I’m wondering what Madanach’s end game is. For all intents and purposes, it seems like he’s supporting the Stormcloaks. But that can’t be right.”

“Consider what might happen if Ulfric takes over,” Arnbjorn says. “Ulfric is a fighter and doesn’t know the meaning of diplomacy. The Stormcloaks could win this war only to collapse under poor leadership and poor planning. Madanach might be counting on it.”

“And placing Thongvor on the throne will just give Ulfric a false sense of security,” Lumen says, the pieces slowly clicking together. “He’ll think Markarth is his, and come to this city when the Empire and the Thalmor have chased him out of every other.”

Arnbjorn nods. “Thongvor will turn his back on Ulfric when he needs him most, and Madanach will have his victory. I don’t know when it will happen, but it’ll be interesting to watch it unfold.”

“So you don’t support the Stormcloaks?” Pontius asks. “I’m surprised.”

“Why?” Arnbjorn scowls. “Because I’m a Nord?”

“You know assassins do not have any political leanings,” Cicero says nervously. “Arnbjorn is an assassin first, and a Nord second— and just because he is a Nord does not mean he supports the Stormcloaks.”

“I know that but— well, none of us are fans of the Empire. The Emperor is _dead_ because of the Brotherhood, so I just assumed…”

“Why would I support him? Ulfric doesn’t know to lead. Just _look_ at Windhelm. It’s a shithole.”

“Never had the pleasure of visiting, but I’ll take your word for it.” Pontius drums his fingertips along the edge of the glass bottle. “I never thought about it before, but a Stormcloak victory would leave Skyrim open to attack from the Thalmor, wouldn’t it?”

“It would.” Arnbjorn sighs, and chucks the crust of his bread into the distance for the animals to scavenge. “The civil war is a waste of time and lives. And this contract is nothing more than Madanach covering his ass in case things to go to shit. If he has control of Markarth, he has a better chance of protecting his people. He lost it once. He won’t lose it again.”

Lumen stares into the fire. She is _so tired_ of fighting the Thalmor. They shouldn’t be her concern since Malrian is dead, but she’ll never truly be free of them until Elenwen is rotting beside him.

“Maybe we should crack open the brandy,” Pontius suggests. “It’ll wash away the bitter aftertaste of politics.”

All too eager to numb her thoughts, Lumen nods in agreement. “Good idea.”

“What about you?” Arnbjorn asked. Though his voice is calm, Lumen knows him well enough to sense the danger in those quiet tones. “Do you have a side you support in this war?”

Pontius yanks the cork from the bottle of brandy and passes it to Lumen. “Ladies first,” he says with a wink, before turning back to Arnbjorn. “I suppose that’s a fair question. As Cicero said, assassins hold no political leanings. But if we were going to place bets on who’ll win— I’d go with the Empire. They may be crippled now thanks to us, but they’ll soon elect a new Emperor and come down on the Stormcloaks with a fury.”

“With the help of the Thalmor, no doubt.”

“They have struck a tenuous alliance, for now. So, yes. Probably with the Thalmor's help.”

Lumen brings the bottle to her lips, savoring the sweetness of the brandy as it warms her from the inside out. If she drinks enough, she can tune out the talk of politics, and chase away the nagging sense of _wrongness_ clawing at the back of her mind.

“Darling,” Cicero says. His eyes are careful. Curious. “You will save some for poor Cicero, yes?”

Cicero does not often partake— unless brandy was involved. And Colovian Brandy is a rare treat indeed. With a smile, she gives him the bottle, already feeling the satisfying swoon of alcohol entering her bloodstream. “Careful,” she says. “It’s pretty strong.”

“That is because you did not eat enough before you started drinking, sweetness.”

A smile curves her lips. Cicero isn’t wrong, but she’s not of a mind to care. Not when she is finally free to relax. Lumen’s eyes flick to where Arnbjorn sits, and even he has decided to sample the mead Pontius brought for him.

“How long were you lugging these bottles around?” she asks, cutting a glance at Pontius.

“A while.” His voice echoes in her ears. “I like to bring a little taste of home with me when I travel. I’m just glad I can share it with friends this time. I hate drinking alone.”

Lumen rubs her eyes as his words bounce around in the haze of her head. She’s never had a single drink get to her so strongly and so quickly. But she traveled all day with little food or water to tide her over. With that in mind, she reaches for her waterskin, but she can barely move her arm. Her limbs feel fat and clumsy, and...

When did she end up on her back?

It is only when her eyes meet with Cicero's does she realize the danger they are in. He’s flat on his back, and his dark eyes are blazing with a fury that makes her want to flinch away. But he is not looking at her. He is looking beyond her. A thump from the other side of the fire tells her that Arnbjorn is in the same predicament, and he cannot save them. Maybe Pontius—

Pontius kneels over her, his fingers dancing along her cheek. “Don’t fight it, Listener.” The curve of his lips is calculated evil. “Just let it happen.”

Lumen rails against the very idea. But a black fog is unfurling along the edges of her vision, and she is receding within herself as her body succumbs to the poison coursing through her veins.

Pontius laughs.

The world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me forever to post. Between work being crazy and dealing with a serious lack of inspiration, I just didn't really have the drive to work on this. But I'm back! So here's two chapters to make up for my absence. Thanks for sticking with me!


	13. Pins and Needles

Lumen opens her eyes.

Above her is a map of grout and stone that fades in and out of focus with every thunderous beat of her heart. Her last memories were of Markarth, the snow, the night sky—

A knot of panic lodges in her throat. “Cicero—”

“Ah, you’re awake,” comes Pontius’ voice. “You had me worried. You Bosmer are hard to poison, and I wondered if I had killed you. But here you are.” He stands over her, wearing a venomous smile. “I suppose Cicero and Arnbjorn are worse off, but they should live. I’d be disappointed if they died so easily.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Lumen does not want to see, let alone _speak_ to the conniving snake. But if she keeps him distracted maybe it will buy her time so she can figure out where she is, and where her brothers are. Not that it matters… She is stripped of her weapons and armor, and left in only her smallclothes and breast band. Running is futile. She would not get far in Skyrim without any clothing to protect her from the elements.

“Really? Well, it’s true. I don’t care what happens to Arnbjorn, but I want Cicero to suffer the loss of yet another Listener and another Sanctuary. I want him to go to his grave knowing he has failed.”

Lumen licks her dry lips. Her first thought is to Shout, to kill Pontius in a storm of dragon fire. But she can’t. Not yet. Not until she knows who she’s dealing with. Though it isn’t hard to guess…

“How long have you been on the Thalmor’s payroll?”

“Clever girl,” he purrs. “But not clever enough to kill me when we first met.”

“I considered it,” Lumen says, rolling onto her side. Her head swims, and her stomach lurches, but she fights through the discomfort and takes in every detail of the small room. No windows. Just four walls and a ceiling of rock and grout, and a floor of dirt with scattered hay. There’s a bucket in the corner to relieve herself in, and the only light is coming from the magelight floating above Pontius.

A quiver of terror dances within her stomach. She is _trapped_. There is no way out. She can only hope Luka will take the proper precautions when he finds them missing; run home, warn the family, and fortify the Sanctuary. Pontius knows the passphrase, and he could lead the wolves right to their door.

“You always have to learn your lessons the hard way, don’t you?” He pushes the heel of his boot against her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. “Always trust your instincts, Listener. You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

Lumen grits her teeth. “Trust me, I _am_ going to kill you,” she growls, choking down the bile rising in her throat. If it weren’t for the poison coursing through her veins, Pontius would be dead— and he _knows_ it.

“You’re welcome to try,” he says, smiling. “But it doesn’t have to be this way, you know.” Pontius removes the pressure from her shoulder and steps back a few paces. “If you’re good to me, I’ll be good to you. Maybe sneak in some extra food and water when the guards aren’t watching. You’re in a shitty situation, Listener. You could use a friend.”

She’d prefer threats of death and dismemberment to his so-called friendship. “How long am I to stay here?”

“As long as it takes.”

“As long as what takes?” She clenches her hands and imagines they are wrapping around Pontius’ neck, crushing his trachea. Squeezing the life out of him would be satisfying, and she intends to try it as soon as she rescues her brothers.

“As long as it takes to break our darling Cicero.” He begins to pace around the room. “He’s strong. Stronger than I ever gave him credit for. It could take a while.”

“Tell me this is more than a lover’s quarrel,” Lumen says with a groan— of pain and irritation. “Tenets be damned— I’ll kill you _both_ if it is.” She knows it is not that simple, but it has to be a part of it. Unless all of Pontius’ pining was nothing more than a clever ruse. An act, just to get close to her and Cicero.

Pontius snorts. “This dates back farther than us. This is your fault, Listener. Your master started this.”

A hard laugh. “I can hardly take the blame for Malrian's idiocy.”

“Ah, but you will. As many of us suffer the sins of our fathers, you will suffer the sins of your master. But, as I said before, I can make this easier on you as long as you’re… biddable.”

“Get fucked.”

His laugh bounces off the stone walls. “You should count your blessings. Have you noticed the state you’re in? I took no liberties with you when I removed your armor. I daresay Garnag would not have had the same restraint.”

A wave of nausea rises with her anger. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she snaps. “I’m not your type.”

“Don’t be ungrateful, love. I can send the old Orc in here whenever I wish. He’s eager to meet you, and even more eager to break you. He’s with us now, but he remembers his time with the Brotherhood fondly. And what assassin wouldn’t want to meet the Listener?”

Lumen says nothing. She knows this game. Pontius will feed her lies to make her weak. Malleable. _Biddable._ But she is no coward. She will not be frightened into silence. She will fight back. And right now, her best option is her hold her tongue. She will not beg for mercy, but nor will she make her life harder than it has to be.

“Nothing to say?” A feigned sigh. “Very well. I’ll fetch you in the morning.”

Pontius leaves the room, and Lumen is drenched in darkness.

She counts her breaths to remain calm. One, two, three… and she’s gasping for air. The darkness is all around her, the walls are closing in— and suddenly she’s not the Listener anymore. She’s not the Dragonborn. She’s a lonely little girl, mourning the loss of her mother and shoved in a dark, damp cellar as punishment for merely existing.

 _Where is Cicero?_ Panic flutters in her chest, and she curls in on herself. A chill spider-walks up her spine; she’s breathing too fast, and her heart is beating too hard. _Where is Arnbjorn?_ A rush of adrenaline assaults her stomach and has her vomiting on the dirt floor.

An ember glows within her heart, feeding upon the rage that has always been within her, until it builds into an inferno. The anger grounds her. It calms her racing heart and gives purpose where despair tried to take root. This is not the end. Not for her, and not for the Brotherhood. She is the master of her fate, and fate changes faster than the death of light. As for the fate of Pontius, Garnag, and the Thalmor...

“They’re all dead,” she says to the darkness; a promise for the Night Mother. “They’re _dead._ They just don’t know it yet.”

* * *

The sound of a door slamming open jolts her awake.

Lumen is on her feet in an instant, despite her trembling legs. She is strong enough to stand, and that’s a step ahead of where she was yesterday.

Pontius pushes the door closed and leans against the wall. There is a bundle of silky, blue material in his arms, and an orb of magelight floating beside him. “Good morning, Lumen. You’ve been invited to breakfast.”

“Where are Cicero and Arnbjorn?”

“They’re around.”

“I want to see them. I need to know they’re okay.”

“You’re not really in a position to make demands.” A wicked smile curves his mouth. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret; they’re not okay, and you won’t be seeing them anytime soon. Not in _this_ lifetime, anyway.” His smile fades. “Come with me. You don’t want to be late.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says, her lips curling in a sneer. “Leave.”

“Temper, temper,” he chides, tossing a bundle of fabric at her feet. “There you go. It should still fit.”

“What are you—” her voice fails her. “Where did you get this?” She is hot and cold all at once. The dress is out of style, somewhat faded, but she recognizes it as one of the many dresses Malrian had made for her. _This_ dress was the most despicable of the bunch. It’s nothing more than a few scraps of material slung together to display too much skin.

“I knew him, you know,” Pontius says with evident pleasure. “Your master. I was one of the many spies sent to clean his manor after his death. We had to go in and destroy anything incriminating and deliver anything of value to Elenwen. But his most fascinating possession was missing. The family was not particularly interested in having you back. In fact, Elenwen would see you executed for a multitude of crimes. But that seems like such a waste.”

“What were you first?” Her voice is shapeless. Numb. “Thalmor or Brotherhood?”

“Get dressed and I’ll tell you.”

This is nothing more than a drawn-out torture session. They want to beat her down, take her back to the thing that she was. It’s a harsh reminder of where she came from, and she can't be that pitiful creature ever again. But if she wants to save her brothers, she’ll have to play along.

With her mind made up, Lumen pulls the dress over her head. A silk collar wraps around her neck, held together with diamond and gold clasps. A sheet of material covers her breasts, and wraps around her waist, leaving her upper back exposed. The long skirt falling over her legs offers no modesty, not when there are two slits up each side. This dress feels more revealing than her underclothes. But while her underclothes serve a very basic purpose, this dress has its own. It is cut to accentuate and entice. They intend to rip away who she is. In this, she doesn’t look like a Listener. A Dragonborn. In this, she is degraded. Dehumanized. She is nothing more than an object of desire.

Pontius blows a long, low whistle. “Your master had impeccable taste.” He circles her, his fingertips grazing the exposed skin of her back. “He should have tamed you. But maybe we can change that.”

“Answer my question,” she says, her voice betraying nothing of how she feels. “Now.”

“You have a sexy back. Has anyone ever told you that? Probably from all that weapons training. But, damn. Just _look_ at all that delicious muscle tone. In the right light, I could almost pretend you’re a man.”

Lumen doesn’t know if that’s meant to be a compliment or an insult— or a threat. So much is uncertain, except for this; Pontius is not going to answer her. He is here to tease. To rile. And she is of a mind to give him the same respect. Her eyes follow his movements as he comes to stand in front of her, a cocky grin on his lips. The fool thinks he’s won some kind of victory.

“Tell me,” she says. “What do you dream of doing with me now that you’ve caught me? You don’t even know, do you?”

His smile grows tight. “What makes you say that?”

“If you did, I’d be dead by now, and we wouldn’t be playing this stupid game,” she hisses. “Quit pretending you are more than you really are.”

Pontius’ jaw is hard with contempt. “And who do you think I am?”

“I think you are nothing more than a Thalmor lackey, lapping up whatever scraps they throw to you. I think you are nothing more than a desperate, shameless sycophant, begging from your betters like a bitch in heat.”

She expects a great many things for that comment. A derisive snort. A tight laugh. An equally snappy retort. But she does not expect Pontius to slap her across the face with enough force to bring her to her knees. The action is so rough and violent she’s almost relieved. Kindness is not something she wants from a captor.

“Get up.” Pontius’ voice has gone quiet and hard. “We’re late.”

Lumen gets to her feet and spits a mouthful of blood on his boots. “I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t have a choice,” he snarls. “This isn’t a game—”

“Will your superiors punish you if I refuse?” she asks. Pontius' lips betray nothing, but his eyes give him away; they flick toward the wall as if he could see his masters on the other side. “I’d rather starve than do anything to make your life easier.”

“You’ll regret this.”

* * *

Two hours and forty-three minutes pass before they come to fetch her. But they do not send Pontius this time. They send someone she’s only read about in Cicero’s journals— someone who was supposed to be dead.

They send Garnag.

Pontius’ comments about the Orc have not been forgotten. She doubts the treacherous Imperial cares whether or not someone takes “liberties” with her, and she’s of a mind to disregard his comments. Such rumors about Orsimer were common. They don’t fit in with man or mer, so they keep to themselves, which gives rise to speculation— and nasty stories.

_Perhaps this isn't the best time to keep an open mind. He is one of my captors, after all._

“Hello,” she says, her feet planted firmly against the dirt, her knees relaxed. She is balanced enough to withstand a blow or leap away if he attacks. “You must be Garnag.”

“And you must be the Listener.” His voice is more cultured than Lumen expects. “Pontius tells me you’re uncooperative. But…” He tilts his head, his good eye sweeping across her body. “You’re up. You’re dressed. It looks like you were cooperating just fine. So what happened?”

“I lost my appetite.”

“Pontius has that effect on people.”

“I’m glad you understand.” She rubs her arms, her skin is cold and clammy. “So, let me guess, you’re here to do what Pontius couldn’t?”

“Well, you missed breakfast,” he says, so casual that it’s easy to forget she’s his prisoner. “But the boss would like to speak with you. So I’m here to take you to him.” His leather armor creaks as he takes a step forward. “We can do this in two ways; you can walk, or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you. So what’ll it be?”

Sensing the perfect opportunity to learn the layout of the prison, she says, “I would prefer to walk.”

“Things are so much easier when we’re cordial to each other, don’t you agree? I’m sure Pontius said something insulting and it just snowballed from there.” He tilts his head, his tusked smile oddly pleasant. “That happens quite often with him.”

“I may have added my own insulting comments to the mix.”

A rough, dry chuckle. “Yeah, I can tell that by the knot on your cheek.” Garnag shakes his head and mutters something that sounds like, _“Fucking Pontius,”_ before producing a pair of iron cuffs. “I do apologize for this, but I hear you can hold your own in a fight. So I have to take precautions.”

The part of her that is _dov_ rages at the sight of the cuffs, but Lumen swallows her pride and offers her hands. She has to keep her head clear if she is to have any hope of victory. But she is so worried about Cicero, Arnbjorn, and the Sanctuary, she can barely form a coherent thought. “Did you kill her?” Lumen asks, her throat tight. “The last Listener?”

“Me? Kill Dupre? Sithis, no. The Thalmor did that. They nearly killed me, too.”

“Weren’t you working for them?”

“Not at that time.” Wrapping a hand around her upper arm, he leads her into the hallway. “They offered me a job when I had no other options. It seemed preferable to starving— or going mad.”

The hallway beyond her cell is a long, unlit corridor of moss and stone, the only light coming from a large, circular room at the end. Whatever this place is, it looks like it had been abandoned for decades.

“You left him,” she says, her voice barely audible. “You left Cicero, too.”

"He made his choice." Garnag stops abruptly. “He could have left at any time. We all had to make some tough choices there at the end. I wasn’t willing to die for a dying cause, so I left.”

“What about _this_ choice?”

He looks away from her. “It’s a long story,” he says. “And one I am not willing to tell.”

No words pass between them for the rest of the walk. When they reach the end, Lumen finds what she _thought_ was a circular room isn’t a room at all, but a large atrium connecting four different wings of the dungeon. A brazier with a roaring fire lights the passage, which is littered with debris and a couple of long-dead corpses. It looks like they burned to death a very long time ago. The walls were lined with scorch marks from what must have been a horrible fire.

There is little of note, save for one thing— there are no guards. Despite what Pontius said. This place is _empty_. She doubts Garnag, Pontius, and their leader are the only Thalmor here. 

“Where are we?” she voices her thoughts aloud as they pass through the atrium and to another hallway. “This place is huge.”

“We’re in the south— or the north, depending on where you’re standing,” Garnag murmurs. “And that’s all I can tell you.”

He leads her into a large room at the end of the hall. It is warm and bright from the braziers that line the walls, and the roaring fire in the hearth at the far side of the room. Ornate rugs line the floor, and tapestries adorn the walls. There is no furniture to speak of, only a single chair with a cloaked figure sitting in it. Pontius leans against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. When he sees Lumen, he offers her a grin, and blows a kiss.

Garnag clears his throat. “The Listener, boss. As you requested.”

“Ah, my guest finally arrives.” The cloaked man lifts his head, the hood slipping just enough to reveal a long, straight nose, and a thin mouth, but little else. “I hoped to dine with you, Listener. You are our honored guest, after all. It was rather rude to refuse my invitation— but I see you are wearing the dress I sent. Very good. I am pleased. But still, you should be punished for your insolence.”

Lumen lifts a defiant chin. “And who are _you_ to punish me?”

“I am your new master,” he says, his voice soft and sweet. “And you will bow to me.”

A bitter chill washes over her. “I will not.”

“Garnag.” He smiles. “Teach my latest acquisition some manners, please.”

The Orc places his hand on the back of Lumen’s neck and presses his foot on the inside of her knee, knocking her off balance. Her legs give out, and she lands hard on her knees. It is all she can do to keep the tears from her eyes as Garnag pushes on her neck, forcing her head to the floor.

“I certainly hope the other two are better behaved.” The man turns his head to address Pontius, sounding almost bored. “Are they awake, yet?”

“They’re coming around. I had to give those two a dose that could bring a Bosmer down, you know.”

“Yes, I remember.” The cloaked figure shifts in his seat. “Look at me, girl.”

Garnag yanks her upright, but he does not allow her to rise to her feet. His master wants her on her knees, and Garnag will see the job done. Lumen’s eyes flick to the hooded figure, and she catches a glimpse of something gold just within the sleeves of his cloak. A longer look tells her it’s gold gloves— no, not gloves. But hands. Golden, geared hands, not unlike something the Dwemer would make.

A strange hissing sound, like hot steam escaping a vent, fills the air when he gets to his feet. A soft ticking follows this action, like the gears of some unseen machine have been set into motion. He lowers his hood, revealing the sharp cheekbones and defined jawline of an Altmer. A scrap of velvet has been tied around his head, covering his eyes— or where his eyes should be. The material dips in, revealing the curve of empty sockets.

“Vorandil,” she breathes, horrified. She and Cicero left him for dead on the steps of the Thalmor Embassy. Oh, this must be some kind of cruel joke. Or maybe it’s divine retribution for all the horrible things she’s done. She took her time with Vorandil. She learned how to make him scream, and when she grew bored of the screaming, she mutilated him and dumped him. She thought he would _die._ She didn’t think he’d come back to haunt her.

His mouth draws back in a lazy smile. “Very good. Now we don’t have to waste time with introductions.”

“Wait.” Pontius pushes away from the wall. “How do you two know each other?”

“I said we didn’t need to waste time with introductions,” Vorandil snaps. “And I don’t intend to waste time explaining anything to _you_ when you can’t even get a prisoner to obey a simple command.”

“How?” Lumen gasps, scarcely able to believe her eyes. “How are you alive?”

“The ancient Dwemer made far more than just centurions. My people have studied their inventions, and adapted them.” Vorandil’s mouth curls in contempt. “You left me for dead, and you would have succeeded had you not left me on Elenwen’s doorstep. Did you forget I come from a superior race? We are advanced. Not just in mind and body, but our society as a whole. You are not the first of your kind to underestimate an Altmer, and you will suffer the consequences of your foolish pride.”

Lumen’s hands are shaking. Each breath quick, _too quick_ , and she can’t seem to get enough air. This is her fault. She’s damned them all because she didn’t make sure Vorandil was dead. She didn’t follow her instincts and kill Pontius when they found him in Falkreath. _This is her fault!_ She could scream. She could _rage_. She could call a storm from the sky and burn this place to the ground— with herself in the middle of it.

She’s doomed them all.

“She looks a bit pale,” Pontius purrs. “I think she’s frightened.”

“Good.” Vorandil smiles. “Everything you did to me, I will give back to you. Tenfold. You took my eyes. You took my hands, my legs, my—” A shake of his head. “You took everything, and I will take everything from you. Your lovers, your precious Sanctuary, and finally, your life. I will finish what Malrian started and _more_.”

A smirk curls her mouth at his stumbling. “Hey, Garnag,” she says, knowing this will cost her. “Did he tell you what else I took?”

“Don’t care,” the Orc grumbles.

“His hands and legs, easily fixed. The eyes? Less so. But I’m willing to bet they didn’t even try to replace his— well, his _manhood_ , for lack of a better term.” A thrill of giddy malice warms her at the thought of the last and final insult she delivered to Vorandil on that fateful night in Northwatch Keep. What better way to punish a sexual predator than to remove his weapon?

“Silence,” Vorandil hisses. He motions for Pontius, and with his aid, he stomps forward and snatches her up by the neck, dragging her to her feet. “You’ll pay for that.”

“Eh, add it to the list,” she grits out, summoning her strength, her breath— her Voice.

Vorandil’s fingers dig into her neck. Stars dance in her vision. And Lumen plays the last card she’s got.

_**“Yol Toor Shul!”** _

A plume of dragon fire engulfs Vorandil. He releases Lumen and stumbles backward, the gears of his Dwemer-made legs grinding as he falls to the ground. Pontius barks a curse and summons a frost spell to combat the flames. Garnag tries to restrain her, but Lumen is able to break free of his grasp.

She bolts out the door, down the hall, and to the atrium. But once she’s there, she doesn’t know where to go next. There are too many halls. Too many options. Cicero and Arnbjorn could be anywhere.

“Listener.”

Something tightens in her chest as the sound of Lucien’s voice. She doesn’t know if it’s the link of their so-called bond within the Void, or if she’s just happy to see him. But she doesn’t care. “Lucien,” she says, grateful for his sudden appearance, but— “Where the fuck were you? Why did you let him take us?”

“The hunters were hiding in the trees. I didn’t stand a chance.” Lucien’s form flickers as he drifts into one of the many corridors. “This way.”

Lumen races after him. “Where are we going?”

“We are leaving,” Lucien says. “I killed the guards. You have a way out.”

“What about Cicero and Arnbjorn? I can’t just leave them here!”

“Their cells are locked, and neither are capable of walking, let alone running. The poison is still in their blood and will be for at least another day or two. I can’t help them, and neither can you. All I can do is get you out of here. _You_ are the Listener. The Brotherhood will not survive without you.”

“No!” Lumen stumbles to a stop. “I am not leaving without them!”

Lucien’s brows stitch together. “Listener, please—”

“I don’t even know where I am!”

“Bruma,” Lucien says, looking around as if he is just now seeing the place. “This is what’s left of the Bruma Sanctuary.”

The sound of approaching footsteps has her heart racing faster than it already was. “Lucien, if I leave, they’ll be furious. They’ll kill Arnbjorn and Cicero before I have a chance to come back and save them.”

“They’re going to kill them anyway.”

“Shor’s fucking _balls_ ,” Lumen rubs her face, thinking fast, and finally settling on a terrible decision. But she’s out of options— and time. Bad choices are all she has left. “If I stay, Arnbjorn and Cicero might stand a chance. They’re going to draw our deaths out. They want _something_ more than just suffering from us, I know it. Why else would they keep us alive? This is more than revenge. It has to be.”

“You risk too much,” Lucien says, growing increasingly more impatient by the second. “Your life is the one worth saving. They would both agree.”

“Well, you’re all fucking idiots,” she snaps, feeling her panic rising until it threatens to choke her. “I won’t leave them behind. I won’t!”

“Give me a command, Listener,” he says, his voice rough with rare emotion. _Fear,_ she realizes. “Tell me what to do, and I will obey.”

“Luka!” She tenses when she sees the guards come around the corner. These guards no lowly grunts or hired thugs. They’re Thalmor assassins, and they are heading right for her. “Tell him what’s happened. He’ll know what to do.” He doesn’t immediately leave. She can sense his hesitation. “Go. Now! I promise I will not die today!”

“I expect you to keep that promise, Listener.”

Lucien vanishes, and the assassins close in.

Rough, ill-intentioned hands close around her; grasping too hard, touching where they shouldn’t. A gag made of scrap linen is shoved into her mouth, and a dagger rests against the small of her back. The blade digs into her skin as she is lead back to her cell.

She will have her revenge. They will all die by her hand. And that thought gives her the strength to continue, to ignore the derisive remarks, and the leering eyes.

For now, all she can do is hope and pray that Luka finds them in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go! Things have officially gone to shit for the Dark Brotherhood!
> 
> If you don't remember Vorandil, he was in chapter 48 of Causa Mortis.


	14. The Misadventures of a Mislaid Mage

“Kyne’s breath, it’s cold as balls.” Luka trudges up the snow-covered hill where the Dark Brotherhood’s campsite is located. “That saying never did make much sense to me,” he continues on, happily chattering to himself. “Balls are seldom _cold._ Chilly? Sure. Warm? Often. Swampy? Occasionally, but that’s _most_ unpleasant. Hey—”

Words fail him when he finds the campsite abandoned, all supplies left behind, and a fire dying in the pit.

“Oh, ha, ha. Very funny!” A smile dimples his cheeks as he spins around, looking for any sight of his companions. “Come out! I’ve got a way in.”

No answer. Save for the howling wind whipping through the trees, tearing away the last of the dying leaves. A chill of dread creeps down Luka's spine and settles within the pit of his stomach. This isn’t like them. True, Cicero is a practical joker, but his jokes were never cruel. Lumen and Arnbjorn (especially Arnbjorn) wouldn’t agree to any practical joking during a mission anyway. Hard to say about Pontius. Luka hadn’t taken the time to know him because he didn’t want to. The way he’s always slithering about, the looks he throws at Cicero, it makes Luka uncomfortable, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. So he did what he always does when things get tough— he pretends it isn’t happening at all.

“This isn't funny anymore,” he says, a thread of panic weaving through his voice. This time, he doesn’t expect a response, and when none comes, he stirs the fire and searches the camp. If they had to leave for any reason, they would have left a note at least. But what if they were forced to leave? What if the Markarth guards found them? Or the Thalmor hunters?

The camp is littered with supplies, dinner rations, and bottles of alcohol— and that draws his eye. It’s not odd for Lumen to drink. In fact, it might be her favorite hobby next to murder. But Luka doesn’t recognize these bottles. The Listener isn’t a picky woman. She’ll drink her weight in Nord mead or cheap wine and never once utter a single complaint. But _these_ bottles…

Luka picks up a bottle and reads the label. _Colovian brandy? Well, that’s fancy. A gift, or a peace offering from Pontius, perhaps?_

Grasping it by the neck, Luka gives the bottle a little shake, stirring what’s left. Most of the liquor spilled onto the ground, judging by the smell of the camp. Bringing the bottle to his nose, he detects oak, citrus, and a hint of spice— a standard bouquet for a brandy. But what isn’t normal is the cloying undertone of freshly blooming flowers. It’s almost overwhelmingly sweet, and it’s a scent he is familiar with thanks to mixing potions and poisons with Babette.

“Sleeping tree sap…”

Luka hits the fire with a blast of frost and gets to his feet. Anxiety gives way to a hot surge of rage that clears his head and sharpens his senses. Casting a Detect Life spell, he spins in place, looking for anything that seems remotely human, dying, hiding, or otherwise. In the trees, he can sense sleeping rodents, an opportunistic fox, and little else.

_If Pontius betrayed us— If. What do I mean by “if?” He obviously did. He’s with the Thalmor, no doubt. I have no way of knowing where he is without working some seriously complicated magic, the likes of which I have never done because such magic only exists in theory and— Stop. Stop freaking out and think! Oh, by all the gods, the Sanctuary!_

Casting an invisibility spell, Luka cloaks himself in shadow and turns back to Markarth. It’s time to add “horse thievery” to his long list of crimes.

* * *

“Nazir!” Luka stumbles through the Black Door and rushes down the stairs into the Sanctuary foyer. “Babette! Cyril! Eola! Somebody answer me, please!”

“For Sithis sake!” Babette peers into the foyer, glaring fiercely. “What are you shouting about?”

“The Listener has been taken!” Luka says, shedding his wet traveling cloak. “Pontius betrayed us, and now the Sanctuary is compromised!”

“I _knew_ that Pontius was going to be trouble!” Babette huffs. “Well, come on. Let’s tell the others. If the Sanctuary is going to be attacked _again_ , we’ll have the upper hand this time.”

Luka desperately wishes he shared Babette’s optimism. But he can’t stop thinking about Lumen, Cicero, and Arnbjorn. Yes, they can all take care of themselves, but they are mortal, and they can die like anyone else when faced with the might of the Aldmeri Dominion. When Lumen fought Alduin, Sithis stepped in, He made an exception and allowed the Listener to live. It’s foolish to think He’d do so a second time. The Dread Lord is not known for his mercy.

In less than a minute, everyone is gathered in the common room. The grave faces of the assassins grow more menacing by the second as Luka tells them what he knows— which is admittedly very little.

“Pontius poisoned the Listener and the others, and took them...” Nazir scratches at his chin while he stares at the point of nothing just over Luka’s shoulder. “How could one man drag three people across Skyrim?”

“Probably had reinforcements waiting nearby,” Eola supplies. “That’s what I would’ve done.”

“What about the Sanctuary?” Luka asks. “Pontius knows the passphrase and—”

“The Sanctuary is safe,” Cyril says, oddly calm. “I’ve told you before, I cast a glamor to hide it. Pontius knows where it is, and he knows how to get in, but unless he leads the assault in person, the Thalmor will never find this place. And if they draw near—” His eyes meet Eola’s, and he cracks a smile. “I’ll welcome the meal.”

“I have a contact in Dawnstar,” Nazir says. “A guard. I’ll send word about a possible Thalmor attack on Dawnstar. That’ll put the guards on alert. If they see anyone strange around the town, they’ll give them trouble.”

“That means you’ll have to leave through the secret entrance,” Eola says with a smirk.

“Leave?” Luka’s toes are still numb, and his body is aching from stress. He needs to rest. Sleep won’t come easy, and his mind won’t give him any reprieve from the barrage of all the potential, horrible things Lumen and his brothers are suffering. But he must rest, or he’ll be of no use to anyone. “Where am I going, exactly? I don’t know where Pontius took them!”

“Karthspire, obviously.” Eola rests her hands on her hips. “Honestly, you’re supposed to be the smart one. Is your brain suffering frostbite, Nord?”

Luka blows out a breath in a vain attempt to decompress. He is in no mood for any familial teasing. “And what am I doing in Karthspire?”

Eola looks around at her fellow assassins. But they all look as lost as Luka— save for Babette. “It’s good business, isn’t it? This happened during Madanach’s contract. He should be informed of the delay,” Eola explains, all seriousness now. “And, who knows? Maybe he’ll help us somehow? The Forsworn are everywhere. Maybe someone saw something.”

“Yeah, maybe—” There is a distant part of him that quails at the very idea of walking into a camp of Forsworn with news their leader really _does not_ want to hear. But he’s all out of ideas. “All right. I’ll go.”

“Not so fast.” Nazir steers him toward the dining table. “You’re dead on your feet. A warm meal will do you a world of good.” He guides Luka to a chair and says to Babette, “do you have any potions that might help?”

“I’ve been working on something new,” Babette says. “It should stave off the need to sleep for a few hours. It’ll get you to Karthspire. Hopefully, Madanach will offer you a bed once you’re there.”

Luka slumps in the chair. “Or he’ll remove my head. But I guess sleep won’t be much of a concern at that point.”

“Such optimism,” Eola says, lading strew into a bowl and placing it in front of Luka. “Things might go south, but I doubt Madanach will actually kill you. He’s not a fool. He won’t compromise his alliance with the Brotherhood.”

“I need a moment with Luka,” Nazir says, his gaze sweeping the room. “Help Babette. Gather supplies. I don’t care. But go find somewhere else to be.” The assassins scatter, giving Nazir the privacy he desires.

Luka pulls the bowl close and shovels stew into his mouth. His stomach is in knots, and the sudden flood of warm food is painful at first. But he keeps eating if only to give himself something to do.

Nazir takes the chair next to him. “You’ve done good, kid,” he says, his voice softer than Luka has ever heard it. “Don’t let your worries get the better of you and don’t give in to doubt. The Dark Brotherhood has been betrayed before. But this time we can prepare. If the Thalmor come, we’ll be ready. And that’s all thanks to you.”

“I’m just worried about them,” he says, unable to say their names. “I’m so scared. What if—”

“Worry is a luxury we cannot afford.” Nazir squeezes his shoulder. “You need to believe they are alive. Hope is all we’ve got to go on right now.”

Some people are born leaders. But Luka is, and always has been, a follower. Give him a task, and he’ll see it through to the end. But don’t ask him to come up with his own, or he’ll flounder about like a fish out of water. Without his leader, his Listener, he is lost. Adrift. But Nazir somehow knew or sensed it, and he stepped in and filled the role when Luka needed it most.

“Thank you,” he says, dropping the spoon into the empty bowl. “For— this.”

“Don’t go telling anyone I was kind, it’ll ruin me,” Nazir says, laughter in his words. “Now get up, and get ready. You’ve got a job to do.”

* * *

With a warm meal in his belly and purpose in his heart, Luka crawls out of the secret door that puts him just on the edge of town. He kicks snow over the hatch and stumbles out of the gnarled copse of dormant trees. There’s a fresh cloak around his shoulders, and a pack of supplies in his hands, and he’s ready to brave the elements and the mercurial tide of Madanach’s moods to save his family… And he’s never been so frightened in all his life.

Luka spots Shadowmere standing nearby, pawing impatiently at the snow. “How did you get out of the paddock?” The horse is fully capable of escaping the rickety paddock built near the Dawnstar stables, but he never tried. But perhaps he never needed to— until now.

Shadowmere’s ear flicks backward as if to say, _quit asking stupid questions and get on!_

“Shouldn’t I get a saddle?”

The horse grunts and flicks his tail wildly about.

“Right. I’m wasting time.” _And horses can’t talk._ Luka leads Shadowmere close to a nearby rock and uses it to boost himself onto the horse’s back. Once settled, he grabs a handful of Shadowmere’s mane and says, “I— I think I’m ready.”

The Night Mother must pity him because Shadowmere takes off at a trot rather than his usual leaping gallop. Lumen may be perfectly at ease on a horse, but Luka is not. He trusts his own two feet more than he trusts a continuously defecating beast. But Luka has to give credit where it's due. Shadowmere is more intuitive than any horse— he’s more intuitive than most people, to be quite honest.

The journey to Karthspire passes without incident. Over the course of the day, the vast expanses of snow covered fields morph into the rocky slopes of the Reach, and Luka arrives at Karthspire camp by eventide.

A guard peers down from the tower. Luka recognizes him as Faolán, the Forsworn guard who loves to tease the Listener. He expects to deal with a fair amount of harassment before he’s allowed in. But to his surprise, Faolán vanishes from sight, and the gates rattle open. Shadowmere trots inside the camp and stops just inside the gates, where Luka clumsily dismounts.

“Come with me.” Faolán leads Luka through the camp, heading straight to Madanach’s quarters.

Luka follows after him. “I can’t remember a time where you’ve been so cordial,” he says, although he’s never had a problem with the guard, personally. Faolán might enjoy teasing and taunting Lumen, but he’s always been kind to Luka.

“Madanach’s been chompin’ at the bit for an update from you people, and I’m not of a mind to make him wait any longer than he has to.” Faolán cuts a glance in Luka’s direction. “Though I am rather disappointed the Listener isn’t with you. I’m always up for a bit of verbal sparring with her.”

“Maybe next time,” Luka says, his feet feeling heavier the closer they get to Madanach’s tent. He doesn’t want to do this. But Eola’s right, it _is_ good business, and the Forsworn King might be of a mind to help.

When they reach the tent, Faolán announces Luka’s arrival, and Uraccen ushers them inside. The large, dome-like tent smells of leather and virulent herbs. There’s a crackling fire in a brazier and a powerful witch-king sitting at a desk, pouring over official documents of some kind.

“Well?” Madanach doesn’t bother looking up. “What's the word?”

Luka takes a breath. “Igmund is still alive,” he says. “We— the Dark Brotherhood has been betrayed.”

“I don’t see why your problems have to be my problems, too.” Madanach looks up. “You’re here. So the Brotherhood isn’t in shambles, as far as I can tell. So why, pray tell, is Igmund still breathing?”

“Because the Listener is gone!”

 _That_ gets Madanach’s attention, and though his face is a mask, Luka can read the emotions flickering behind his eyes. Irritation flashes to anger, and in a voice as quiet and calm as a swift death, he says, “remind me of your name, boy.”

“It’s Luka, sir.”

“Uraccen, get Luka a drink. A strong one, I think.” Madanach motions for Luka to sit. “You’re going to sit down and tell me what happened.”

Luka does as he’s told and gratefully accepts a glass of unknown, highly intoxicating liquid from Uraccen. “We were in Markarth. I was sent to scout ahead, and I left Arnbjorn, Cicero, Pontius, and Lumen at our camp. When I returned, they were all gone. Pontius dosed them with sleeping tree sap and… took them somewhere. But I don’t know where and that’s why I am here.”

Madanach pours himself a generous helping of alcohol and asks, “why would I know where he took them?”

“I’ve read theories of magic, old magic, that can be used to track people down. I was hoping you, or someone here knew how to cast such a spell.”

“I’m familiar with the _theory_. Never tried it, though. I do know we’d need a piece of the missing person. A strand of hair would do it, but I’ve never collected hair from the Listener or her companions. Sorry to say, the thought never crossed my mind.”

Luka takes a drink, wincing at the way the alcohol burns his throat. He’ll likely suffer brain damage or go blind if he drinks enough of the stuff, so he sets it down and tries to think. “You have blood, though! Remember? That was Liadan’s payment for removing that horrible collar from the Listener! Arnbjorn’s blood!”

“Unfortunately, the blood is gone.” Madanach leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “Even with frost magic, it doesn’t keep for long.”

Luka exhales and tries to think. He’s trying to be brave. But the truth is he’s scared out of his mind. He has no idea where his closest friends are, and if they’re even alive. And he’s fairly certain he’s going to have a heart attack because his last and final option is lost. It all feels so hopeless and _he_ feels so helpless— and he _hates_ it.

He’s no leader. But he is capable. To be helpless is not in his nature.

Anger surges through him, white-hot and quick as lightning. In moments like this, he thinks he’s close to dying because he feels like he’s going to _explode_ at any second. He is going to kill Pontius. Slowly. A fireball to the face would be far too kind for that snake. But a frost spell to the lungs, melted with fire, so he suffers a lifetime of pain until he finally drowns in his own fluids...

“Get ahold of yourself, kid,” Madanach snaps, his breath coming out in a plume of vapor. “We’re not the ones who stole your Listener.”

“What—” Luka’s hands are covered in a layer of hoarfrost that has spread across the table, and up the sides of the tent. Uraccen and Faolán have their weapons in hand, ready to strike him down at Madanach’s word. “Sorry— I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you. So the blood’s gone. It’s fine. I’ll find another way.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, kid, I truly am—”

“They’re not dead!” Luka shoots to his feet, the wooden chair clattering behind him. “Nothing is certain! I just need to figure out where Pontius took them! But I have no idea where to start…”

“You know what I do when I have a problem I can’t solve? I sleep on it. Sometimes a good night’s sleep is all I need. I’ll wake up with a fresh perspective on things. So why don’t you stay here for tonight? You look like you’ve been awake for days.”

“I don’t think I can possibly sleep. But I’ll take you up on the offer.”

Madanach nods to Faolán. “You know where the extra tents are.”

Sensing his dismissal, Luka stammers out a “thank you,” and follows Faolán through the crowded camp. They walk another familiar path. One that leads to where the Dark Brotherhood always camps when they stay at Karthspire. It looks like their campsite is now a permanent fixture among the Forsworn. Only it’s so different now. Three animal skin tents are situated around a fire pit, but tonight there’s only one, lonely occupant.

“We have potions that can help you sleep,” Faolán says. “But something tells me you wouldn’t be interested, considering…”

“You’d be right.” Luka haphazardly lobs a fireball at the fire pit, sending sparks and wood chips flying as a fire roars to life. “I’ll be fine.”

“If potions are out of the question, how would you feel about company?” Faolán rests his hands on his hips, watching Luka. “It wouldn’t be difficult for you to find a warm body to distract yourself with. Many in this camp would fancy a romp with a Dark Brotherhood assassin.”

“What—” Taken aback, Luka drops his pack of supplies near his tent. “Why?”

“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “Assassins are dangerous. Some of us like a little danger.”

“I, um—” Luka wishes he had Lumen’s steady supply of insults in times like this. Or Cicero’s ability to make a joke of everything. Or Arnbjorn’s talent of glaring everyone into submission. But he is lonely and lost, and he doesn’t feel like being a smartass, which is often his only line of defense— next to fireballs. “I'm not really in the mood for _that._ ”

“That’s a shame,” Faolán says, lighthearted as ever. “If you change your mind, or need anything at all, give a holler. I’ll be just down the hill.”

Luka watches him leave. “What the fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Crawling into his tent, he sets to work spreading out his bedroll and quickly eating some field rations to satiate his growling stomach. Once fed, Luka stretches out on the bedroll and stares at the top of the tent, the conversation with Faolán replays over and over in his mind. If that’s how the man is going to come on to him, he’s got a lot of work to do. He needs to work on his timing, for starters. Luka’s three closest companions are missing, why would anyone think he’d be in the mood for sex? _It’s how some people cope,_ he reminds himself. _He’s trying to be nice… I think._

“Don’t worry about it,” he says to the empty tent. “It’s nothing.”

After an hour of desperately trying not to think about anything, Luka drifts off to sleep. The sound of the camp and his worries fade away into darkness— and then a burst of cold wind and an even colder voice jolts him back to reality.

“There you are,” growls Lucien. “You’re very hard to track down.”

Luka claps a hand over his mouth to keep from shouting, then lowers it to rest over his pounding heart, as if he could keep it from leaping out of his chest. “You’ve been looking for me?” he squeaks. “What for?”

“What do you _think_? I’m going to lead you to where the Thalmor have imprisoned the Listener.”

“You… You know where they are?” Luka sits up. “If you know where they are why are they still imprisoned?”

Lucien sneers. “I gave the Listener a way out, but the fool woman wouldn’t leave the Keeper and the wolf behind. She told me to find you. Said you’d know what to do. I pray her trust in you isn’t misplaced.”

That Lumen refused to abandon Arnbjorn and Cicero comes as no surprise. That she claimed Luka would know what to do shocks him like a slap to the face. But there is no time to panic. He cannot afford to delay. “Where are they?”

“The old Sanctuary, just outside of Bruma.”

“Bruma?!” he gasps. “How did— oh, nevermind. Okay— it’ll take me a day to get to the Jerall Mountains from here, and I think I have a vague idea where the road to the Pale Pass is…”

“Shadowmere knows the way,” Lucien says. “Don’t worry about the route. Worry about the rescue.”

“All right.” Luka drops the subject, even though he’s dying of curiosity. How could the horse know the way? But now is not the time to ask. He has a rescue to plan, after all. “I’ve got an idea, but it involves asking Madanach for a _huge_ favor...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we see what Luka has been up to! In the next chapter we'll have a look in on Cicero. I am trying to get these up as fast as I can, but between school, work, and multiple writing projects, I've been a little busy. However, I have no intention of letting this fic go unfinished. So thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> I apologize if there are any tense slips. I've been writing in past tense quite a lot lately, and switching back to present was a bit of a struggle. But I think I caught all my booboo's...


	15. Lovers Don't Forgive

Roused by the insistent cramping of a full bladder, Cicero rolls onto his side and clutches his spinning head. Memories of the night before scatter just out of reach, like leaves caught within an autumn breeze. Another aching throb in his groin has him wobbling to his feet. The question of _why_ he feels like shit can be answered _after_ he finds the privy.

Finding a proper place to relieve himself is made all the more difficult by the unfamiliar surroundings. But Cicero is accustomed to moving in the dark, and he finds a small bucket placed in the corner of the room— and not a moment too soon.

Once his business is concluded, he studies the room with his hands. There’s a bed, a dresser, a writing desk, and a few tapestries he can’t admire. This is imported furniture, he can tell by the way it’s carved, by the distantly familiar, decorative whorls in the wood. It’s odd for a room decorated in Cyrodillian fashion to have something as banal as a bucket for a toilet when water closets were all the rage.

But… it’s not odd at all, is it? Skyrim has buckets. Only displaced nobles from Cyrodiil, or the Nordic elite, use enclosed toilets. It’s such a little thing. An insignificant detail. But he’s feeling his way around the room again, exploring every nook and cranny because the details are what matter.

As his eyes adjust to the dark, Cicero realizes there’s something oddly familiar about room. He knows the furniture, the layout, even the stupid, impossible to see tapestries. The only detail that’s wrong is the piss bucket.

This is his room. His furniture— from Cheydinhal.

But how?

Cicero’s heart races as a distant, derisive voice in the back of mind whispers, _Maybe it was all a dream. A beautiful dream of a lovely Listener and a steadfast Sanctuary. A family where poor Cicero finally belonged. But here you are. Back in Cheydinhal. Alone. Forgotten. Your only company is that of a few rats and a dead woman, and neither the rats nor the corpse see fit to speak with you. Pathetic._

“Stop.” Cicero worked so hard— fought for _so long_ to silence that voice. “Something is wrong.”

_You are right. Something is wrong. The future of the Dark Brotherhood rests in your incapable hands. They should have left someone else in charge of the Night Mother and sent you out on the streets to die._

“But Cicero found the Listener! He found Lumen. He found _home._ ” He runs a shaking hand through his hair, stops, and pats his head because something crucial is missing.

Where is his hat?

Cicero runs his hands down his body. He is clothed in a silk tunic and velvet breeches. The clothes are similar to what he wore when he was a young man, first introduced to the wealth of gold a properly executed contract could provide. He’s not worn clothes like this in ages. He prefers his motley. Lumen likes his motley. There’s no reason to change his habits when it makes them both happy.

Eyes burning, he stumbles back toward the bed and gropes at the covers. “Lumen,” he gasps. “Sweet Lumen, please wake up.”

Cicero’s mind is like a ship lost at sea, swept up in a violent tide and thrown toward the rocky shores of madness. He is spinning wildly out of control, and he cannot find his place, his time, and he needs the stabilizing force of his sweet Listener to bring him back to reality. He wants to fall into her arms, curl against her, listen to her heart, feel her breathe. He needs her warmth to enfold him, to pull him out of this rapid descent into the deep, dark depths of hysteria.

But she’s not there. The bed is empty, and Cicero is alone.

“All is not lost,” he says through an inappropriate giggle bubbling up in his throat. “Sweet Lumen probably just woke up before Cicero.”

He all but throws himself at the door, grabs the latch and— nothing. It’s locked. “No, no, no…” He rattles the latch and then shakes the door on its hinges because he _cannot_ be locked in. “This is not funny!” he shouts, banging on the door. “Let Cicero out now!”

A deafening silence answers. Cicero takes a step back— another— and another— until the backs of his legs hit the bed. He’s forgotten how to breathe— how to _be._ He can’t do this again. He can’t be trapped in this room with the darkness as his only companion. Not again.

“Stop panicking,” he tells himself. “Sit. Breathe. _Think._ What does Cicero remember?”

_As if the broken mind of a wannabe jester could ever hope for clarity._

Through the haze of sparse memories, there are a few that glow like will o’ wisps on a foggy road. He is certain they were in Markarth, and that his Listener is not a dream, because he was teasing her about drinking too much, and then he partook because he was feeling light and happy and he wanted to join her. But then— then she was on her back, and Pontius — that wretched, traitorous viper — was standing over her, and then… nothing.

Certainly smothers his inner voice into silence. He may be mad, but he is _not_ crazy, and he did not dream up the last two years of his life. “So this room…” Despite the dim light coming in from the crack beneath the door, he looks around with a clearer gaze— an assassins gaze. “A ruse, Pontius? It will take more than _this_ to fool the Fool of Hearts.”

So it’s a game, then. But why bother? Why go through the trouble to replicate his old bedroom? Pontius has some serious funds backing this little adventure in revenge, and only the Thalmor would spend gold so carelessly.

That answer leads to more questions. Why would the Thalmor agree to keep Cicero alive? Information, perhaps? They would know where the Sanctuary is located by now, so that can’t be what they’re after. Maybe they wish to know about the Dark Brotherhood’s contacts. Even Pontius should know Cicero would never give information like that away, not even under the threat of imprisonment, torture, or death.

Maybe Cicero won’t be the one in danger. Would he spill the Dark Brotherhood’s most sacred secrets to save the life of his beloved Listener? He shouldn’t. A lifetime ago he _wouldn’t_. But this world holds nothing for him if Lumen is not in it, and Cicero will betray everything he is if it means she will live to see another day.

How selfish a man in love can be.

But Cicero hasn’t been selfish in a very long time. He gave the best years of his life to the Dark Brotherhood, only to be betrayed over and over again. Perhaps it’s time to think of himself, rather than the whole, for once.

_If I want to save Lumen, I will have to play Pontius’s game for a while. Very well. Sly Cicero will play the beguiled fool, but only for a short while. He has a Listener to save._

* * *

Cicero is pacing the room when the door finally opens. He’s prepared to face Pontius, to play his part in this wretched charade. But when a familiar, long-dead Orc walks through the door, he’s completely caught off guard.

“Garnag?” he asks, squinting. “What are you doing here?”

_Oh, Sithis. Maybe I have completely lost it._

“Cicero,” he grunts and holds up a wooden bowl. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m feeding you.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t starve to death.”

Cicero’s eyes dart toward the door that’s just slightly ajar. He could run for it. Lock Garnag in, but— “You are supposed to be dead. You left to get food, and you did not come back. Cicero assumed the worst.”

Garnag sets the bowl on the writing desk. “It’s dark in here. I’ll get you a fresh candle and some water. Maybe some wine, if we have any left.”

“Garnag,” Cicero says, louder now. “Where have you been for all these years?”

“ _Sithis_ ,” Garnag sighs. “It’s only been a few days. I was delayed.”

“What are you talking about? It has been well over ten years!”

Garnag shakes his head. “You’re getting worse.” The Orc casts a piteous look in Cicero’s direction. “You haven’t been the same since Dupre was killed. The death of the Listener took a toll on us all but— Cicero, you do know what year it is, yes?”

“It is year _two hundred and three_ of the Fourth Era, and there is nothing you can say that will make Cicero believe otherwise.”

The Orc huffs a laugh. “You’re about fourteen years ahead of the rest of us, then,” he says. “Probably better that way.”

Cicero grits his teeth. _They’re toying with me. If Cicero agrees to play the game with Pontius, then surely he should play it with Garnag, as well? How far gone do they think poor Cicero is? Cicero is only a little strange, somewhat foolish, delightfully mad… not completely and utterly delusional!_

“What does it matter if Cicero is a little lost?” He folds his arms across his chest and glances at the door for the second time. “Why lock him in? Cicero does not appreciate this at all.”

“It’s for your safety and ours,” Garnag says, picking up the used bucket and handing it to someone just outside the door, who hands him an empty one. “You don’t know where you are half the time. You don’t know who we are most of the time. You need to be locked up. Don’t want you breakin’ any tenets.”

Ridiculous. Even if Cicero were crazy, he wouldn’t be buying this. “Why not just kill Cicero, then? If he is dangerous, then why haven’t the Black Hand stepped in? They can hold a vote.”

“They _did_ ,” Garnag says as he steps outside. “And they voted to let you live.”

He shuts the door without another word.

Cicero’s mouth pulls back in a tight smile as he stares at the door, listening to the shuffle of fading footsteps. He tries and ultimately fails, to ignore the sinking sensation in his chest. Garnag is alive, and he’s working with Pontius— with the Thalmor. Do they think Cicero can be so easily manipulated? Do they believe him so broken, so simple, they can convince him that the last fourteen years — _Sithis, has it really been that long?_ — never happened? The last two years have been some of the best of his life. He has a family. A Listener. A lover. It will take more than a game of deception to make him forget that.

Still… The ruse works well enough to germinate a seed of doubt in Cicero’s mind. He shoves his hand inside his shirt, fingers running along the scar given to him by Alduin. The old wound grounds him in reality and stirs the embers of a rage he can scarcely contain.

This betrayal stings worse than any wound, and Cicero plans to pay it back tenfold.

* * *

Cicero cannot bear to touch this accursed furniture, so he sits on the floor and waits. There is nothing to do but wait, doze off, wake up, and wait some more. Just to give himself something to do, he traces the lines of grout weaving through the stone floor. They curve like the streets of Whiterun or Solitude, only these streets are just pathways to nowhere.

The passing of time is impossible to track in the darkness, but he thinks it must be late when Pontius finally enters the room. He shuffles in, a candle in hand, and it is all Cicero can do to keep from leaping up and shoving the candle down his throat.

“I’m not supposed to be in here without permission,” Pontius says, shutting the door with a soft click. “But I had to see you. I had to make sure you’re okay.”

Cicero’s tongue feels like glue. He has a part to play. A script to follow. But his voice is lost. It’s so hard— so bone-shatteringly difficult to agree to play this game when all he wants to do is strangle Pontius with his own intestines. Cicero doesn’t think he’s got the strength to even pretend to be his friend, to pretend to like him. _Do it for her._ He reminds himself. _Pretend so that you may find your sweet Lumen again._

“Cicero?” Pontius’ feet are rooted to the floor.

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Cicero says, “I am glad you are here.” But the words are flat and without infection. When did Cicero become so bad at pretending? “Poor Cicero has been so lonely,” he adds, looking up at Pontius and trying his damnedest to look like the pathetic creature they believe he is.

Pontius steps away from the door, inching closer. The movement is careful. Cautious. He’s taking great efforts to appear unconcerned when, in truth, he’s scared shitless. He is ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice.

How foolish of Pontius to construct a play, assign himself the central role, and completely fail to perform.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been glad to see me, love,” Pontius says with an air of nonchalance. “You’ve accepted my company on occasion, and you’ve been glad to see me leave, certainly. But you? Happy to see me?” A bitter laugh. “The solitude must be getting to you.”

“Cicero is sorry,” he says, remembering every cruel word he ever said to Pontius— a man he used. A man he never loved. “But Cicero still doesn’t understand why he’s here. Garnag made it seem as if poor Cicero has lost his mind.”

The reassurance that the lie has become truth spurs Pontius into action. Moving closer, he kneels down in front of Cicero. “You haven’t lost your mind,” he says. “But you’ve lost your sense of time. Of us. So the Black Hand—”

“Yes,” he snaps, not wishing to hear it again. “I know. They’ve decided to make a prisoner of poor Cicero rather than granting him the mercy of a swift death.”

“You might get better. There’s no reason to kill you.”

“So Cicero has gone crazy, and you are here because…”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

Pontius sighs. “Because I care about you and I needed to know you were all right.”

Cicero barks a high-pitched, delusional laugh. “Of course Cicero is not all right! No one likes being locked up, if they did prison would mean something entirely different! So how long is Cicero supposed to remain in his cage?”

“I don’t really know.”

“You have an idea, yes? Tell Cicero what you know, or leave.”

“You have to stay in here until you’re better— until you’re no longer a danger to yourself and your family—”

Pontius’ mouth is moving, but the sound is distant. Muted. Cicero’s ears are full of cotton, and his mouth is full of ash. This has nothing to do with tormenting him for information. This has everything to do with breaking him down to nothing and then building him into something of Pontius’s design.

He gets it now. Really, truly _gets_ it. The Thalmor have awarded Pontius a pet.

How typical of the Thalmor. Trading lives like so much currency. And how stupid — how _arrogant_ — of Pontius to accept. He doesn’t understand the rules of this game. To manipulate, one must be impervious to manipulation, and the Thalmor have convinced Pontius that he can keep Cicero. But they’ll kill them all eventually. Anyone with ties to the Dark Brotherhood, even traitors like Garnag and Pontius, will die. At least Cicero is not in danger of being killed at this moment— but Lumen and Arnbjorn definitely are, and he cannot afford to waste any more time playing the fool.

He has to kill Pontius.

But he has to do it carefully. He’d love to reach out and crush his throat with his bare hands, but such thoughtless violence would only have Cicero locked in a new cage, further away from his sweet Lumen than he is now. How far that is, he doesn’t know. But he’s going to find her, and _then_ he’s going to kill Pontius.

There are so many questions. So many unknowns. But Cicero knows himself. He _knows_ he cannot continue this charade any longer. He’s too viciously angry. He thinks he might snap at any moment and that simply _will not do_ because Cicero is always in control. But right now, all that careful control is slipping through his fingers like blood from an open wound.

“If you are not going to help Cicero,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet. “Then leave.”

“I’m not—” Pontius frowns. “I’m trying to help you!”

“You can help me by leaving.” Cicero brings his knees up to his chest, looking for all the world like some petulant child. “Now.”

“Fine,” Pontius snaps. “I’ll visit you tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be more reasonable then.”

Pontius shoots to his feet and crosses the room. He hesitates by the door, but he shakes his head and walks out, the lock clicking behind him.

* * *

Cicero counts to one hundred.

Then one hundred more just in case Pontius decides to linger near the door.

Three hundred seconds pass and Cicero is moving across the room. He lays on the floor, peering through the crack beneath the door. A pair of boots walks by. Pontius would have him think those feet belong to a sibling, but Cicero knows the brisk, controlled gait of a Thalmor guard on patrol. Once the feet pass by, he begins his count. He counts to seven hundred and sixteen before spotting another pair of boots.

Cicero lays there, counting, counting, counting, until he is certain of the intervals between patrols — ten minutes, give or take a little. That will provide Cicero with plenty of time to do what he needs to do.

Getting to his feet, he runs his hands along the doorframe and finds the hinges. This room was never meant to be a prison, if it were, the hinges would be on the outside of the door. The Thalmor should know that, but he is grateful for their oversight. Cicero tries to pull the pin out of the hinge, but it’s rusted.

No matter. His dear Luka taught him a spell to use in situations like this.

_“You won’t always have lockpicks on your person, and— Cicero? Are you even listening to me?”_

_Cicero looked up. He lapsed into a post-coital daydream, but he was still listening… sort of. “Oh, yes! Luka wants to teach Cicero a— a spell?”_

_Luka’s glare eased into a smile. “I’m showing you a trick that might save your life someday,” he said, tugging a pair of trousers in place and approaching the bedroom door. “You already know spells to summon frost. I’ve seen you use them.”_

_“Cicero only knows how to use frost to preserve ingredients for Mother. He’s never successfully lobbed a spear of ice through someone’s chest.”_

_“That’s another lesson for another day,” Luka smirked. “For this, you only need to know the basics of the spell. Now, pay attention— If you’re ever in jail, or stuck in-or-out of where you want to be, you can use this simple technique to open almost any door as long as the hinges are made of iron.”_

_Cicero watched, gleefully enraptured by the sight of Luka abusing an inanimate object. The frost spell coated the door hinge, the dark iron glittering in the firelight, and with one swift motion, Luka smashed the hinge to pieces._

_“Masterfully done! But why not freeze the lock instead?”_

_“Most locks are made with another type of metal— corundum or copper or something, and those metals aren’t as brittle as iron when frozen. But door hinges are almost always iron because it’s cheap. It’s all in how the metal is composed, and if it has a ductile-to-brittle transition phase, which iron does and—”_

The rest of Luka’s lecture on the composition of metals is, admittedly, lost to time. But Cicero spent the rest of the afternoon freezing and smashing every door hinge in the Sanctuary… which meant Arnbjorn had to fix every door hinge in the Sanctuary. He was rather cross with the poor Keeper. Cicero tried to patch things up with the grumpy werewolf; he offered to help around the forge, tend to his armor, and he even offered to polish Arnbjorn’s sword— but that seemed to make the Nord even more irritated than before. The ingrate.

Cicero calls on his magic, the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end when the chill of frost coats his fingertips. Pressing a hand to the bottom hinge, he covers it in a layer of ice before moving to the middle hinge, and the top. Cicero shakes the frost from his hands, banishing the spell, and digs his fingers into the crack between the door and the frame and _pulls_. “Damn door,” he growls. Cicero’s life would be so much easier if he could just smash the hinges, but that would draw too much attention.

Another tug has the metal groaning and — finally — shattering. With the door locked on the other side, Cicero can barely pull it open, but being small has its advantages, and soon he wriggles free.

Once out in the hallway, Cicero has no idea what to do. He knows this hall. He knows these scorch marks, the decades-old blood still clinging to the walls, and the ghosts of screams still echoing through the air. “Bruma,” he hisses. “They brought us to Bruma.”

A chill washes over him as panic takes root. He never thought he’d see this place again, but here he is, standing within the Sanctuary-turned-mausoleum to a family he lost. His first _true_ family. Now this sacred place has been violated by the Thalmor, turned into a prison for his new family— a family he cannot bear to lose.

_Not now. This is no reason to panic._

Bruma Sanctuary was a fortress long before the Dark Brotherhood took it over. There are three identical wings of bedrooms, a wing consisting of the common area and kitchens, and then the long entrance hall all linked by a central atrium. Lumen and Arnbjorn could be anywhere, but Cicero’s willing to bet every septim in the Dark Brotherhood’s coffers he’ll find them locked in the old interrogation chambers. But he can’t walk freely in this place. Not when the Thalmor and his so-called “old friends” are in charge. He needs a disguise.

Blowing a sharp breath through his nose, he glances back at the door to his room. His prison. Hard to believe the Thalmor would leave it unguarded. Even harder to believe Pontius had so grossly underestimated him. Or did he? Leaving his room unguarded… is this just another trap for Cicero to stumble into?

It doesn’t really matter. Another guard would be by in a few minutes, and Cicero needs to make himself scarce unless he wants to find himself locked within another — probably less comfortable — cell.

The hallway is lined with doors. Cicero tests one, ready for whatever he might find on the other side— but the door swings open to reveal a dusty, long-abandoned bedroom of a brother or sister from a bygone time. So he slips inside and waits for the guard to come by. Ten minutes comes and goes. Then another ten minutes tick by, and still, there’s no sign of a guard.

_Something is wrong._

Cicero pokes his head out of the room, straining to listen for anything, any sign that a guard might be near. He can hear heavy footsteps echoing from the atrium, followed by excited voices, but he’s too far away to listen to what they’re saying. Issuing a silent prayer to Sithis, the Night Mother, and any other god that might listen, Cicero slips from the room and edges closer to the atrium. Lingering in the sparse shadows, he watches a Bosmer guard stop a patrolling Altmer.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “Everyone’s abandoning their posts. Have we been compromised?”

“Of course not,” the Altmer snorts. “The big guy is gonna fight the Nord. The boss is taking bets.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” The Altmer grins. “And my bet’s on Garnag.”

“Have you lost your senses?” The Bosmer chuffs a laugh. “Garnag is impressive, even by Orc standards, but there's no way he can beat the Nord in hand-to-hand combat. Have you seen the guy? He’s _huge_ , and, quite literally, a beast. There’s no way Garnag will win.”

“It doesn’t matter who wins.” A low, wicked laugh. “Pontius says the Nord and the Listener are involved. Even if the Nord wins the fight, he won’t live. Boss wants us to kill him in front of the Listener. Reckons she might become more compliant if she starts losing people.”

“Wait— I’m confused. I thought the Listener was involved with the mad Imperial?”

“She is, the feral doxy, but we’re not allowed to touch him. You know the rules.”

“I know.” The Bosmer rolls his eyes. “So when’s the fight?”

“In an hour, so you’d better hurry.”

A bead of sweat rolls down Cicero neck as he watches the two guards depart. He remains in the shadows, trapped between indecision and fear. There are too many guards for just one man— too many guards for only three assassins. 

Arnbjorn and Lumen are at the mercy of the Thalmor, and there is nothing — _nothing_ — Cicero can do.

 _“Okay,”_ he tells himself. _“Now you have reason to panic.”_


End file.
